


when you're fleeing

by truce



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Howl's Moving Castle Fusion, Angst, Bartender Louis, Fluff, Happy Ending, Howl's Moving Castle, Kinda, M/M, Magic, Pain, Slow Build, ahhh how else do i tag this, lame jokes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-16 08:31:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14807894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truce/pseuds/truce
Summary: AU. Harry’s got an affinity for bright cocktails, pretty boys, and the fleeting case of impermanence; Louis is a bartender with golden skin, cerulean eyes, and a promise of forever.(or; louis has never believed in magic; harry’s made of it)





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> hi, all!
> 
> so, to cut this short — in essence, this is a howl's moving castle inspired fic fused with the modern day era. i just really wanted to highlight my absolute favourite film in the world, and i wanted to merge it with another thing i loved dearly. so, hope you all enjoy!
> 
> (title taken from "beach baby" by bon iver. best song).

**I.**

A glass shatters in the near distance.

A middle-aged man, dazed from countless servings of hard liquor, lowers his gaze to watch the shards form shapeless figures on the laminated floor. His hands are still cupped, but there is now a stunning lack of glassware between his palm and his fingers. 

From behind the counter, another man rushes towards the noise; he briskly walks to the other side and stares at the mess below him, accompanying his ruffled senses with a deep sigh. “Alright, Jerry, you’ve had enough.”

The groggy man seated on the stool beside the shambles groans in disappointment, curling his fingers into a fist as he does so. “C’mon, Louis. Just one more.”

The man he called out to, the one who’s now got a table broom and pan in his hands, shakes his head, “You’ve broken three glasses in the span of a week.”

“No more,” Jerry promises, hoping to elicit some sort of _sympathy_ from the younger man. “That’ll be the last one.”

“Wish I could believe you, mate,” Louis replies, letting out a small, mildly hollow laugh as he does so. “But with the amount of glasses you’re breaking, you’ll run me out of work.”

Louis finishes up the sweeping – what was previously a speckled floor is now a spotless, unmarked space – and this fills Louis with an odd sense of satisfaction. He’s been working the same tasks for over two years, wiping bar counters tainted with repulsive liquor stains and chatting up highly-intoxicated patrons until the early hours of the morning, so the tiniest charges are what he finds irrational joy in; besides, he figures his days would be bland if he didn’t try to find a sense of excitement in things like _sweeping some shards of glass._

“All done,” Louis announces to himself with a pleased grin. “I’m a _master_ at this, aren’t I?”

“Mm,” Jerry agrees, but his attention is focused on a point high above Louis, trained directly at the colorful array of bottles and spirits. “I could use one more.”

Louis shoots him a disapproving look, but he keeps his lips pressed in a tight smile nonetheless as he discards the shards into the nearby bin. He, then, grabs a dishtowel from behind the counter and proceeds to continue wiping at glasses until they’re spot dry. Jerry, on the other hand, is a series of groans and complaints and if _that_ isn’t annoying, Louis doesn’t know what else is. “Stop groaning, Jerry, what can I get you?”

For a moment, Jerry is thrilled – highly elated by Louis giving in to his wishes. “Sazerac, and toss in some extra bitters.”

Louis nods, then he turns back to sift through his prep table, pouring contents of bottles into a small whiskey glass and making a show of his shaker as he does. When he finishes, he brings a small glass to the drunken man, setting it down right in front of him. The man looks down at the clear liquid, scrunching his nose up in disfavor. “This isn’t my drink.”

“Oh, ‘course it is,” Louis responds, pretending to peek into the glass. “It’s _water._ Learn to love it.”

He gets a grumble in response. 

The peak hours pass, and Louis can’t wait to close up shop and head home – he deserves a nice, easy rest on his soft sheets, and a warm, steamy shower for about a half hour or so for getting through another strenuous day. Two hours past midnight is when a majority of his patrons start trickling out in increments, carrying themselves in their intoxicated hazes, and bidding Louis a loud goodbye from their places near the exit. To that, Louis flashes a genuine smile, adding in a ‘take care!’ and a ‘get home safely!’ as his customers leave the bar. 

At a quarter to four o’ clock in the morning, the time that he has to pack up for closing, he has about three customers left – a young group of two women and one man who have crowded up a booth at the farther end. 

“You guys still good over there?” Louis half shouts, offering a thumbs-up and a lopsided smile to the small group in the booth.

“All good, Louis!” Replies one of the girls, beaming right at the brown-haired man behind the counter. “Could we get the bill, as well, please?”

“Got it!” 

Once the transaction has been made, Louis’ last customers slowly vacate the premises, lost in a series of fits and idle chatter. They spare a small ‘goodbye’ to Louis with the promise of their return, and Louis just laughs and answers with a playful “you better.”

When the clock strikes four, Louis is engulfed in the bittersweet sound of silence. It’s an odd time, Louis thinks, as he watches the first light of dawn peek through the blinds, yet the gray hues of the night still consume the bulk of the sky. He finishes up his tasks – he polishes up the counter, scrubbing down all the sticky stains that have gathered up over the past hours; he stacks up the glasses for use when he opens up once more later that afternoon; and he rearranges the liquor bottles according to the color sequence of the rainbow _just because._

He unties his dark apron and neatly folds it up, tossing it into one of the cupboards and shutting it right after. There’s a mirror settled behind the bottles, and Louis crouches to sneak a look at himself before he heads out. His hair’s gone flat now – the usual feathery, caramel-toned strands now lie in gentle pools down his temples, an indication of a long day at work. The shade of his cerulean eyes look much duller in the dim light, and his mouth’s taken on a weak smile that seems to be quite rare for Louis – in essence, he looks tired. He supposes that if he works the hours of five in the afternoon to four in the morning of the following day then _yeah, he would be._

He gathers his things from the storage room in the back, and he fishes out the set of keys to lock down the shop. All Louis is looking forward to is getting back to his flat a few blocks down and jumping straight into bed, gaining back all the hours of sleep that he’s constantly depriving himself of. From the window, he could see that a harsh downpour of rain has sprung up, falling in sheets from what he could gather from the other side of the glass.

 _Great,_ Louis thinks. _The one day he didn’t carry an umbrella._

Louis figures he has no choice but to run all the way, the whole ten-minute trip back to his flat. The universe just absolutely adores him, doesn’t it? What with its irrational propensity for kicking Louis into situations he’d much rather not be in, and leaving him to fend for himself in all sorts of battles without the appropriate battle gear. And that, in his case, is his umbrella.

He sighs, mentally preparing himself to brave the rain He reaches the main entrance and extends a hand out to push the door open, but he’s stopped in his tracks when the shadow of a figure appears on the other side of the clouded door. 

Louis jumps back in surprise because _it’s 4 AM_ and he’d much rather not be feasting his eyes on any ghostly apparitions, _thank you very much._

The figure edges closer, until its faint shadow becomes more defined, contrasting greatly with the translucent glass of the bar’s main door. The door opens with a caution, and the owner of the shadow slips in just as carefully. Louis, in all honestly, is on edge as the figure comes into play. 

Of course, this could be three things: the first case scenario would be that Louis was right – this is some ghostly apparition that has come to entrap him in his own workplace, ridding him of the pleasures of a warm shower and a good night’s (or, in Louis’ case, _morning’s_ ) sleep. The second scenario would be, and Louis prays to the heavens that he’s wrong, that this is some played-out robbery, because no man in their right mind would be walking into a bar out of his own free will at four in the morning (Louis laughs at this, thinking it sounded like some _joke_ in his head). And, there’s the third possibility: this is just some aimlessly wandering man looking for relief and a pint who seemed to have missed the sign that stated the bar’s working hours on the front door. 

_Oh god,_ Louis hopes. _Please make it the third option._

The man from the outside has fully slipped himself in now, coming into Louis’ full view. The stranger is young, tall, and – Louis hates to resort to physical qualities first, but – _pretty, pretty, pretty_. His lightly golden skin glows in the dim light, framed by a head of tight, brown waves and curly strands falling past his ears. The man is clad in a rich black coat, thick and woolly, hugging his broad frame in a fitted and structured manner, like it was tailored just for him. On his lips, a subtle yet present smile lies, and it’s directed straight at Louis. 

“Hello,” the man greets with a deep, reserved tone to his voice. “Uh, are you still open by any chance?”

Immediately, Louis rules out first-case scenario number one because he figures that if the man in front of him were some spirit of sorts, he would’ve just walked right through the door, disregarding the space and time continuum that existed all throughout. But then again, this man’s beauty was ethereal; _otherworldly_ even, so he could be anything – maybe _he’s an alien_. 

Louis also slashes out the second scenario in his mental list because he highly doubts that a robbery scheme would involve a polite man that chooses to ask about the closing hours, rather than just barging in with a well-derived plan and a weapon. 

So, thankfully, Louis feels like he’s heading on with the third case, which is: this man obviously did not see that the sign that says the bar closes at four. Louis considers getting a bigger sign. 

“Sorry, mate,” Louis says with a tight smile. “Just closing up.”

“Oh,” is all the man answers. He doesn’t move, nor does he show any signs of doing so, and this puzzles Louis. Usually, when told that a shop is dawning to a close, people would leave the premises in a haste. However, this man stands still, hands tucked deeply into his coat pockets and eyes trained directly at Louis. 

“Uh,” Louis starts, although he doesn’t quite know what to say. “You alright there?”

The taller man seems to have broken out of his trance; he shakes his head and utters, “Oh, sorry ‘bout that. Lots to think about.”

“I can tell,” Louis replies, his gaze travelling endlessly from point to point, anywhere but the man, because _this is awkward_. His fingers tap broken rhythms onto the side of his jeans, where he tries to relieve himself of the situation. “So.”

“It’s just–” The stranger mutters, and Louis picks out his words little by little. “It’s raining out. Forgot to bring an umbrella.”

“That makes two of us,” Louis remarks. “How hard is it out there?”

“ _Pouring_ ,” The man answers, using a hand to gesture at the direction of the window. “Nearly can’t see a thing.”

“That’s odd.” Louis did check the weather forecast earlier on in the day, as he does everyday, and a great downpour was never in the news. He believes the stranger, though, because when he glances out towards the window, he can see nothing but a cast of white, amplified by the roaring sound of raindrops pattering against the glass. “Could’ve sworn the forecast said it’d be sunny.”

“Yikes,” the man pitches in, smiling wider while he’s at it. “Trust sure is hard to come by.”

“It’s a _weather forecast_ ,” Louis laughs. “Not a fucking _philosophy_ lecture.”

Louis ends up letting the man in, completely disregarding the closing hours. After all, Louis wasn’t a cruel man – he wouldn’t send out a person, any person, out into bad weather. Besides, as disappointed as Louis is that he won’t be diving into his bed anytime soon, there’s no way Louis is getting home in this condition, what with the thunderous sounds bouncing off his walls and the flashes of lightning littering the gray sky; or, at least what he can make out from the sky, which was deeply coated in mist and fog. 

He learns the man’s name as they take their seats on the squeaky bar stools by the counter – his name is _Harry Styles_. He claims he’s from a remote town on the outskirts of the city, but he frequently moves around in search for stability (Louis doesn’t quite know what stability means in this context, but he doesn’t press on further); he’s a doctor, from what he says (although when Louis asks him what he specializes in, Harry only mumbles a vague ‘general medicine’ answer); and, Louis learns by himself that the curly-haired man has a thing for bright and sweet cocktails poured into delicate glasses with citrus wedges adorning the brim. 

“These are _so_ pretty,” Harry comments, a playful smile tainting his lips; he leans his head closer to the glass Louis set out in front of him so he could watch the chilled red orange liquid swirl around in the glass. “What’s this drink called?”

“That would be a Bloodhound,” Louis returns, taking a sip out of his own mixed drink in the process. 

“Like the dog,” Harry says in all seriousness that Louis has to hold himself back from bursting out.

“Like the dog,” Louis confirms, and he goes back to watching Harry take the blood orange wedge and swirl it around his drink. 

“What’s this, then?” Harry holds up the blood orange slice, waving it in the air and tilting his head at Louis. Harry, if anything, seems all too curious. A lot of the things Louis offers appear to be _new_ in Harry’s eyes – Louis isn’t bothered at all, no. In fact, he enjoys explaining the little things to Harry and his cheerfully inquisitive self. It just seems a little unusual that some of the most common things seem to fly past him. 

“That would be a blood orange,” Louis responds. “S’like, an orange. But darker.”

“I figured,” Harry giggles, then trails off, taking a bite out of the sweet fruit. “That’s really good.”

“You seem to like fruits a lot.” Louis stands up from his place on the stool to move behind the counter, walking towards the mini fridge stationed below and pulling out two chilled water bottles for the both of them. He returns to the curly-haired boy, who seems to be a bit too enthralled by his bright-colored drink. 

“Mm,” Harry mouths – he raises his glass as he pours the remaining contents down his throat in one, quick gulp. “I’m a little fruity.”

“That so?” Louis laughs, amused by the other boy’s unrestrained statements. At this point, Harry’s just letting words flow out of his mouth, translating all his scattered thoughts into actual sentences with a smile and an occasional giggle. “Well, this fruity guy needs some water in his system.”

“Do I?” Harry questions, raising a brow at Louis. “I think I need a prettier drink.”

“C’mon, don’t be stubborn.” Louis opens the bottle of water and hands it over to Harry, who takes it after much convincing. “Don’t want you walking the streets _drunk_ before we even get to seven AM.”

“Anything for you,” Harry lets it slip, and although it’s meant to be a comment tossed in high spirits, never meant to be taken seriously, Louis can’t help but feel the heat rushing to his cheeks. He just hopes that his body decides to be helpful for once and avoid blushing at all costs – he couldn’t have a near stranger think that he flushes at the smallest things (even if he really does). 

Harry clutches the bottle and downs the water, finishing up half the container before he sets it down on the wooden counter. 

“See?” Louis teasingly says. “Water is great.”

“You run a bar,” Harry states. “S’quite contradictory.”

“I do, but I’m also a decent person,” Louis reveals, reaching out to pat Harry on the cheek. “I try to get people to piss while they’re drunk, not piss drunk.”

That ears a laugh from Harry, and Louis notices that the other man’s eyes crinkle up while he does. He doesn’t mean to notice every small detail, but there’s so many quirks about the man in front of him, and Louis has the odd urge to explore them all, like he’s wholly captivated in this man’s atmosphere, and unfamiliarity is a strange concept that he dares not tread into. “What a kind soul.”

“ _Unfortunately_ ,” Louis utters with sarcasm laced in his tone. “I’m an absolute saint.”

“And look who’s talking,” Louis beams. “You’re the doctor in this situation. Shouldn’t you be going off at me for all this alcohol?”

Harry puts on a confused look, but it’s so quick and fleeting that it disappears before Louis could catch it. Then, he’s back to his smiling self – looking absolutely carefree in his state. “I’m a doctor, not a party pooper.”

“A _party pooper_.” Louis could not be more amused. 

After a couple minutes more of Louis offering water bottles to Harry and Harry laughing at another one of Louis’ absurdly crafted jokes, Harry managed to sober up. He’s still on the same level of giggly as he was in his drunken state, but he’s given up on closely inspecting fruit wedges now, which Louis takes as a sign of being clear-headed. 

“Look!” Louis excitedly declares, pointing out at the window. “The rain’s stopped.”

Outside, the view holds a relatively clear sky painted with light blue hues and subtle wisps of clouds; the sun’s just beginning to peak out from the horizon, signaling the break of dawn. The trees by the entrance sway gently, almost like they were never disturbed, like it wasn’t just raining terribly a couple minutes before. 

“What time is it anyway?” Louis asks and Harry replies instantly.

“Six.”

And _wow_ , Louis barely felt the two hours pass by. He hadn’t even noticed that his long conversation with Harry had stretched out until the bright hours of the day. “Already?”

All Louis could think about at this point was how he’s managed to consume two hours of his free time in the same place where he worked, and how he had to wrap up once more only to come back to work in ten hours, which isn’t nearly enough. Well, if anything, he’s only got himself to blame for his erratic work hours – he chose to run a bar in the first place, and he _knew_ what he was getting himself into. It’s just that when faced with it, it’s a tough job. 

Louis gets up from his seat and starts collecting all the glasses he and Harry had used up and placing them into the sink, letting the water run over it in an attempt to soak them. “I have to get home soon. Have to open up the place again at five and in the meantime, I still need to catch up on sleep. I’m honestly dead tired.”

“I can imagine,” Harry agrees, sitting up straighter and pulling out what seems to be a wallet from his back pocket. “You run this place by yourself?”

“Well, yes and no,” Louis counters. “If you’re asking me if I own the place and all then yeah, I do. But, can’t run this place all on my own. I’d fucking pass out every night.”

Harry takes out a few bills from his wallet and sets it in the small, woven basket on the counter, pushing it forward towards Louis who’s now gone back to station himself in front of Harry, wiping his wet hands on a towel as he goes. 

“You should see the Friday crowd, it’s absolutely _wild_ ,” Louis shares, hollowly laughing as he imparts his stories to the highly interested man across the counter. “All these teens, right, and they’re all trying to get drinks with fake IDs. Then, on the other side of the bar, you’ve got these old men and their crazy obsession with whiskey. Then, you have those groups that won’t leave ‘til the right end of open hours, and at that point, all you really wanna do is rest. And, of course, let’s not forget the shit that goes down in the bathrooms. And not just the literal kind.”

Harry grins, entertained by Louis’ stories. “You’re stronger than I thought.”

“What?” Louis jokes, gesturing down to his body. “The big muscles and the bodybuilder frame wasn’t giving it away?”

“You’re _terrible_.” There’s a tinge of amusement in Harry’s voice, and Louis wants to revel in it forever, oddly enough. He’s known the man opposite him for less than a day, less than three hours even, and yet some bizarre sensation inside him calls for him to get _closer_. He’s _charmed_ , is the thing – entirely fascinated by the man with golden skin and the boundless curiosity. 

“So, where ya headed?” Louis asks as he saunters towards the door, Harry following suit behind him. They take their time – trapped in their own realm as they engage more in final chats and closing words. 

“Um,” Harry contemplates, and it strikes Louis as though Harry’s in deep thought, like the question was difficult to answer, even if it was quite far from it. “Nothing in particular, actually. ‘M new to town so I was thinking of just roaming around town and sight-seeing and all that jazz.”

“Well, let me be the one to tell you,” Louis states. “You’re not gonna spot many sights here. Quite a small town – the most exciting thing’s probably the playground by Trane and fifth that looks like a whale, if you try hard enough. And, well, I’m the biggest sight here, but you’ve already seen _that_.”

Harry widely smiles at Louis’ light-hearted joke, and he feels himself release a small laugh. “Confidence, I love that in a man.”

Louis blushes, and _god_ , he wishes he wasn’t. “S’your lucky day, then.”

“It _really_ is,” Harry affirms, making Louis’ chest grow fuller and fuller with an fluttering sensation that makes his face heat up and his palms tremble. “I’d really love to see you again. I mean, only if you _want_ to, of course.”

And if that doesn’t send waves of fondness through Louis’ system, then maybe he’s lost touch of all things _love and affection_ but luckily, Louis is all about love. He doesn’t mean to, but he says it all too quickly, “Yes, please, I’d love to.”

Harry grins, and Louis notices the taller man grow more excited. “This time, we could, like, explore new places. Well, they’d be _old_ to you, but they’d be new to me.”

Harry fumbles over the right words to say, which Louis finds absolutely appealing. “How ‘bout I show you ‘round town then? We could make, like, a proper date out of it.”

An enthusiastic nod is earned from Harry, who seems greatly jittery in his place. 

“And I’d _love_ to show you around today but unfortunately, I’m beat,” Louis casts down, offering Harry an apologetic smile. “How’s Sunday? I’m off that day.”

“Sounds like a date,” Harry finalizes, muddled in a mess of bright smiles and eager eyes.

“Isn’t it?”

They walk out of the bar together, leaning closer to each other than they should. There are droplets of rain falling onto their foreheads from the roof as Louis tries to lock up the door, but they don’t mind, not even as Louis’ hair gets soaked and it cascades in a sopping mess on his forehead. Harry just laughs at this, extending his hand out to comb out Louis’ hair with his fingers. Louis just swats his hand away, even if all he really wanted to do was to discover how it felt to interlace their fingers and drown in each other’s warmth. 

And as they move farther away from main door and into the stretch of land right under the radiant heat of the morning sun, Louis should have noticed that everything else was dry – arid and waterless, like the presence of a rain shower was all but existent. It was merely the vicinity of his bar that had garnered a rain beating, of sorts. And Louis should have noticed, right from the moment Harry had slipped into his bar, that he wasn’t drenched, not a single drop on Harry’s skin or coat – he never was soaked, despite the harsh rain he claims as so. 

Louis should have noticed all these odd and highly questionable things, but he didn’t; all he seemed to notice at that moment was _Harry._


	2. II.

**II.**

“Did you hear?”

Louis was behind the bar once more on the day that he particularly felt the greatest aversion towards – Friday. He was with his trusty dishtowel, rubbing at the wide brims of their shot glasses and listening to his co-worker, a blond-haired man with brunette roots and a thick Irish accent, talk about some gossip from the nearby town. 

Louis doesn’t quite know how hearsay from the nearby town happened to seep into Niall’s sphere of being, because Louis can barely keep up with the rumors spreading around his own town – and that’s a small place to start. But, Louis figures its one of the many consequences of working at a bar – you get stories from people from different corners of the world who have gone and intoxicated themselves into a drunken stupor which leads them to blabber on about every single story that has inserted itself into their lives. And here Niall is, keen as ever, siding up to Louis and imparting his own share of gossip.

“Two towns over,” Niall starts, taking two slim bottles from the counter and pouring estimated measurements into a shaker. “Apparently there’s been talk about this mysterious thing. Some _monster_ or some shit.”

Louis would be lying if he said that he wasn’t intrigued because he’s heard all sorts of rumors, yes, but none that involved _monsters_. “Ooh, tell me more.”

Niall tosses the shaker back and forth between his skilled hands, then pours the clear yellow liquid into a Martini glass, dropping two green olives while he’s at it. “So anyway, this monster, they say, is apparently this like extremely attractive guy. They said and I quote, ‘he’s a hunk’.”

Louis snickers, unable to contain his wild sense of childishness when it comes to funny words and immature ideas. “Extremely attractive? Aren’t monsters supposed to be like, I don’t know, hideous?”

“Well, don’t ask me, I didn’t see the thing.” Niall takes his newly made Martini and hands it over to a waiting patron by the far end of the bar. Louis watches as the blond man accepts a tip from the wealthy-looking man, and thanks him. Then, Niall’s back in Louis’ airspace, still as involved in his story as he was previously. “Besides, the girl who was telling me the story was a little borderline tipsy, kinda fuzzy with the details.”

Louis pouts, and Niall rolls his eyes. 

“You big drama queen, it’s fuckin’ _bar gossip_ ,” Niall laughs, shaking his head. “Every story you get here is fuzzy.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Louis rolls his eyes, directing his attention back to his glassware maintenance which, by the way, was growing to be more and more monotonous with each glass Louis picks up. “Go on with the story, then. I wanna know what happens next.”

“Since you asked so nicely,” Niall teases, playfully patting Louis’ cheek.

Louis swats the other man’s hand away, accompanying it with a loud and overdramatic groan. “Remember, I’m still your boss.”

“Boss, my ass,” Niall retorts and they both erupt in wild fits of laughter, gaining notice from the patrons seated out front. Louis flicks his dishtowel at Niall, hitting him straight in the face. 

“Ow!” Niall exclaims with a tinge of exaggeration – it seemed almost _theatrical_ even. 

“It’s a fucking towel, Niall,” Louis says, the edges of his lips curling up into an amused smile. “Now look who’s being overdramatic.” 

Suddenly, an influx of customers stream in, filling all the stools that were empty just minutes ago. There are open calls for drinks of all kinds, overwhelming the two boys behind the counter as they struggle to toss spirits into emptied glasses – Louis thinks he’s never seen a bunch this large. 

Their conversation is halted thereon; the sudden buzz of the crowds made it difficult to hold a cohesive chat, leaving Louis in a daring state of curiosity. He’s had his fair share of bar stories – the common two-year relationship split woes, the dreaded step-sibling making its way back to town, the unforgiving university professor and the hanging grade, _all of it_ – but, Louis has never heard any about monsters. If anything, it excites him, makes him crave more of the finer details. He decides to wait until his shift ends. 

After an excruciatingly lengthy hour and a half of demanding regulars and bitter stains, Louis unties his apron in blatant relief, dropping down onto the cushioned seats in the backroom. Niall plops down beside him, his heavy sigh bouncing off the walls of the contained room. “What the fuck was that?”

“That was intense,” Louis huffs out – in that moment, he feels like his lungs are going to give out from exhaustion. “We’re never doing that again.”

“We’ve never had that many all at one time,” Niall remarks, slumping down against the wall as he looks at Louis. “I didn’t even know we had that many people in town.”

“Pretty sure we don’t,” Louis secures, reaching out into his bag, which was haphazardly tossed against the mahogany table opposite him. He pulls out a fresh, crisp shirt and proceeds to change into it, basking in the glorious feeling of unstained clothing. “Lots of new faces tonight. What d’you think? Bunch of people from out-of-town decided to all have a drink at our small, sorry neighborhood?”

“Oh, ‘cause we’re _so_ special,” Niall grins, pulling a comb out of his bag and running it through the disheveled mess atop his head. He struggles, from what Louis can see, because he’s got his nose scrunched up and his comb tangled in places it shouldn’t be and honestly, Louis has never seen Niall work so hard. “Maybe they’re from that town with the monster, or creature, _whatever_.”

“Speaking of,” Louis trails off, hinting at Niall to finish his disrupted story. “I wanna hear the rest of that.”

“Thought you weren’t into rumors,” Niall says, still evidently wreaking havoc with his stubborn strands. “Bad for the soul or summat.”

“Yeah, but you already started it, Niall, now stop stalling and shoot.”

A triumphant ‘aha!’ fills Louis’ ears as a smile of victory etches itself into Niall’s face, comb clutched in his right hand. “Got it!”

Louis groans and allows himself to land on the cushioned bench with a thud. 

“Someone’s impatient,” Niall teases, then continues on, “If you wanted to know so badly: about, like, three weeks ago, there’s this one girl from two towns over, Porter, I think. So, apparently, she’s this bubbly and bright girl, right, and especially gorgeous. Well, she gets this boyfriend – the girls claim he’s this overly handsome, rich-looking guy, and he has this way with words and all. Her _dream guy_ or something. I’m not really gonna go much into detail ‘bout the guy ‘cause the girls at the bar were nonstop gushing. Couldn’t pick everything up.”

“No problemo,” is all Louis replies. He doubts he’d like to hear the intricate details about this mystery creature anyway – besides, all he needs to know is that the man’s got extraordinary appeal and no one can resist him, he’s got that down in the mental list in his head.

“ _Well_ ,” Niall continues, getting giddier by the minute. “Everyone’s just captivated by this guy, but no one really knows where he’s from or who his family is or if he even _has_ one. Everything’s just one big haze around him. Then, after a week or something of being with this guy, the girl comes back, but she’s this completely different person. She seemed super dull, like she’s drained of life – that’s how they described it – and she’s suddenly incapable of affection and intimacy and shit; isn’t that weird?” 

Louis just nods, oddly intrigued by the turn of events. He can’t believe he’s indulging himself in all this, but he can’t help it – in all his consecutive bland days, he’s glad to have a little spice added into it, even if it’s just in the mere form of bizarre and unfounded gossip.

“Even weirder, this mystery guy’s gone,” Niall reveals. “Like he was never there. No traces at all.”

“Could just be a bad case of a breakup, you know,” Louis pitches in, attempting to make light of the situation. “Doesn’t have to some monster fiction right away.”

“See, that’s what I thought, at first,” Niall semi-agrees before moving on to ramble on more. “But then the girl at the bar says that it happened about two more times in the past two weeks. Says these two attractive guys from Shore were both swayed by some mysterious, unearthly man as well – separate instances, ‘course. Suffered the same fate, apparently. People say the mystery man _feasted_ on their hearts.” 

Louis snorts at that – he’s, quite frankly, incredulous once he hears the last sentence. It’s just absurd to think that a story that far-fetched is actually consumed by the public as truth. 

“You don’t believe that, Niall,” Louis questions, his lips twisting up into an inquisitive smile. “C’mon, it’s not even _that_ bad.”

“Just think – separate instances, the prettiest and liveliest of the bunch, all dulled, _drained of life_ ,” Niall declares, and there’s a slight shiver laced in his voice that causes Louis to snicker. “Sounds like a right monster to me.”

“Sounds like an overused vampire story to me,” Louis laughs; he refuses to give into the foolish notion of some kind of attractive _monster_ that feasts on people’s hearts and rids them of the pleasures of life. It’s the kind of tale you’d hear from your father by the beside table back when you could still count your age with your delicate fingers, only to grow up and realize that there never was a monster at all – just the salient caution imparted in you, establishing an unfounded fear of falling in love. “Maybe it’s a metaphorical monster or some shit. You know how people are – they get their heart broken and suddenly they’re out there calling their exes monsters.”

It’s like – when your mom doesn’t want you to get into a relationship, so she produces stories out of thin air that terrify you into staying single. That’s what Louis deems this is. 

“I dunno about you,” Niall shrugs. “It sounded pretty real to me. Those girls were genuinely worried.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Louis assures, feeling awfully confident in his belief. “Don’t keep yourself up at night over it, yeah?”

Louis stands up from his comfortable spot on the bench, then leans down to pick up his bag. “Wouldn’t want you to get nightmares now, do we?”

Louis ambles over to Niall, pinching his cheeks as he goes. Niall huffs, and this elicits a laugh from Louis. 

“M’ telling you,” says Niall – he looks like a frightened child, engulfed in nerves and wariness, obviously too affected by the hearsay. “If that _thing_ comes around town, he’s gonna get you first.”

Louis’ mouth hangs open, feigning a look of hurt as he bites back, “Well, _yeah_ , if that _thing_ comes out of your mouth again, I’m gonna get your job first.”

“Power tripping,” is all Niall says, but he’s smiling now, which is a good sign for Louis. 

“You’re lucky you make good drinks,” Louis returns, patting Niall on the back as they exit the room, turning the lights off as they do. 

“And the people _love_ me.”

“Unfortunately.”

The walk home from the bar is fairly dim, and Louis didn’t expect any less from the midnight hour. He’s beat, as always – drowned in the lingering sounds of orders from tipsy patrons and the strong, bitter stench of hard liquor. His feet can barely take another set of steps, and yet the trip seems longer than usual. 

The streets are desolate, and it’s not uncommon to wend into empty roads, what with their small town population and crazy work ethics – but somehow, the vacancy plays at Louis’ nerves, making him feel a little uneasy. The cool air doesn’t help, and it makes Louis wrap his arms around himself, trying to substitute his lack of warmer clothing for the faint warmth his own body heat can provide. 

He could swear it wasn’t this cold just moments ago, yet the heavy breeze slips across his skin, sending shivers through him.

*****

“You’re lying.”

Louis speaks through dairy-stained lips and a wide grin, the lower half of his face covered by a waffle cone topped with some ice cream flavor called _Fruity Fusion!_ (Per Harry’s semi-healthy recommendation – Louis blames the doctor status). 

The curly-haired man is pressed up against Louis’ side as they stand inside a quaint little ice cream shop a few blocks from Louis’ apartment with Harry enthusiastically pointing at the tub of colored sprinkles, the preserved fruits, the cereal bits, and the _goddamn jelly beans_. The toppings with various shades are Harry’s favorite, and he goes absolutely nuts watching them being drizzled all over his creamy treat. He’s got a childlike glow to him, and Louis finds it incredibly alluring. 

“M’ not, though,” Harry replies, licking away at his cone. 

“Conversational or formal?”

“Both,” Harry answers with a satisfied beam. Harry had just shared a series of stories about his adventures – how he had to keep moving around for work so he ended up residing in a _long, long, long_ list of countries. With that, Louis asks him how he gets around, language-wise and all, to which Harry answers with a “I speak their language, usually”, and this is how Louis discovered that Harry spoke fluently in fourteen languages – _fourteen_ – and Louis can barely speak his own. 

“How are you so talented?” Louis asks, and he’s pretty sure his mouth is still hanging open from the amazement. It’s not everyday that you meet a fourteen language-trained man.

“It was more of, like,” Harry starts, biting at his waffle cone as the words fly out. “Survival. To be one with the locals, you have to understand them – especially with the nature of my job. So, knowing their language helps.”

“That sounds hard.”

“Well, it is,” says Harry in all seriousness; but his stern look is promptly replaced with one of mischief, and his lips twist up at the corners as he says, “Plus, French gets _all_ the guys.”

A suggestive smile edges itself onto Harry’s face, and Louis responds accordingly: he ruffles Harry’s hair and answers with a, “Mm, don’t be so sure.” 

After spending what feels like _hours_ at the ice cream shop, they both decide to head on over to the next highlight in town; that is, _if_ the spots could actually be considered highlights. The tiny bell hanging over the entrance door of the shop jingles softly, but it’s overpowered by the gentle sounds of Louis and Harry’s laughter as they double up over some lame joke that Harry cracked. Louis is just about completely _positive_ that the joke wasn’t even all that funny, but for some reason, it _works_. 

Louis takes Harry to the whale park. 

Harry’s got a puzzled look on his face as he squints his eyes, as if squinting will help him discern the park’s whale shape. Right now, it’s looking like nothing more than a blob of sorts to Harry, maybe even a pear if he tries hard enough, but it’s definitely not a whale. “That’s not a whale.”

“It _so_ is,” Louis presses on, tugging at Harry’s arm as he attempts to make out the shape in the air. “Use your artistic eye or something.”

“M’ using all the eyes I have!” Harry playfully exclaims, turning his head to glance at Louis whose got a pout settling into his features. 

“It’s just – _okay_ ,” Louis gives in. “I’m really the only one that sees a whale, but like–”

Harry dissolves into a fit of smiles, shaking his head slightly as Louis reasons out. 

“Hey, let me finish,” insists Louis, crossing his arms over his chest in a stubborn manner. “I think it’s a talent, actually. Maybe I’m to art as you are to languages. Or medicine. Or hair. Or whatever it is, there’s too many.”

“I’ll give it to you, then,” Harry replies. “You have the name for it. _Louis Tomlinson_. Sounds artsy to me.”

“Look who’s talking, _Harry Styles_ ,” Louis counters, loving the way Harry’s full name rolls off his tongue, but he won’t let that show, naturally. “How lucky would you have to be to get a name like that? Proper rockstar-esque.”

“Maybe the universe loves me,” Harry muses, but it’s more of a shout into the vacant space rather than a definitive claim. 

“I’m pretty sure I’m the opposite,” Louis kids. 

“Well, ‘m sure it loves you,” Harry deflects, making Louis’ chest feel a bit warmer at his words. “In the super duper unlikely case that it’s true, _which it isn’t_ , I swear—“ Louis smiles at this. “Then, at least you’ll have me. I think you’re lovely, no matter what the universe claims.”

“You’re _too_ good, honestly,” Louis compliments, gazing at Harry with a sense of awe at how pure and genuine all his words are – with the way Harry expresses himself, Louis wouldn’t be surprised to discover no traces of evil whatsoever. And Louis admits, he can’t hold back the endless waves of fond that rush through him whenever Harry does the simple things that probably go by unnoticed by the other man – the light touch of Harry’s hand on Louis’ back as he guides them through a narrow path, the endearing crinkles that adorn Harry’s eyes as he bursts into a wild series of laughter over an exchange of jokes, the way Harry brushes aside strands of hair that have fallen astray over his forehead and tucks them behind his ear – all these things make engulf Louis in an odd sphere of warmth, one that he hasn’t felt in a long time. “Are you real?”

Harry’s lips curl up at that, and Louis tries his best not to melt. “If I mess with you and say no, would you believe me?”

“Mm, probably.” Louis shrugs. “I wouldn’t be surprised if I were being, like, _Punk’d_ by the world.”

“Punk’d?” Harry seems to find this amusing, because he’s gone and erupted into a laugh. “How _old_ are you?”

Louis mocks hurt, and playfully punches Harry in the arm (Louis pretends like he wasn’t thrilled by the contact). “ _Young enough_ , thank you every much.”

Their last stop of the day is the rushing riverbank by the hill, bordering on the edges of town – Louis strategically placed this last, seeing as it was getting much later, and a seat by the riverside offers the most spectacular view of the sunset. They’re both lounged on a park bench, awfully close, their rested hands laying not more than a few inches apart. 

Louis controls his breathing, even goes as far as to lay a hand on the expanse of his chest to try and stop the continuous quick-paced pounding. It’s just that the whole scenario – the two figures seated on a small bench with one man’s arm draped over the backrest ghosting over the other’s shoulders – it’s something that could be deemed _romantic_ , but Louis isn’t sure if he wants to make the first move, _if_ he wants to make the first move.

Louis is a ball of confidence, he’ll give himself that – he has a right way with words and persuasion, and he can make a killer cocktail if it came to that, but all of that is drained out of his system once he’s placed beside a certain immensely beautiful man with golden skin and wild, curly hair. Louis wants to faint.

“You know,” Harry starts, breaking the silence since they first settled down into the benches. “You haven’t told me that much about you.”

“I haven’t?” And truly enough, Louis thinks, he’s bombarded Harry with a series of questions about his being and his many endeavors, but he never thought much about sharing his own stories – he guesses he was just too enthralled by the other man to even think about himself. “Oh, shit, you’re right.”

Louis fiddles with his thumbs, making them go around themselves in circles. “You probably think I’m some troll that lives under a bridge, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say _troll_ ,” Harry jokes, grin widening as Louis scrunches up his nose. “You’re too cute for that.”

“You’re one huge flirt, you know that?” Louis breathily laughs, although it doesn’t prove to be enough to stop the fluttering sensation blooming in his chest. Right there and then, Harry Styles just _flirted_. With _him_ , out of all people. He guesses his ideas about making a move weren’t as far-fetched as he thought. In some distant mental state, Louis is patting himself on the back. 

“You love it,” is all Harry responds and Louis blushes, like proper fucking _blushes_. 

“The question is: did it work?” Harry follows up, and oh God, if Louis’ answer isn’t _yes, yes, yes_ , a million times _yes_. 

“Keep doing it and you’ll find out.”

The next half hour is filled with Louis rambling on about his family life – how his family’s migrated to another country after his mom married a corporate lawyer up North; he talks about his six little sisters, and how he direly misses having younger siblings constantly tugging at his leg to ask him to reach for the cookie jar by the upper cupboard and having his teenage sisters bug him about which outfit looked better; Louis even talks about his days back in school where he was quite the troublemaker, and how he frequented the principal’s office more than he did his own classrooms. 

Harry seems genuinely interested, taking in every single word that Louis utters. In essence, it makes Louis share much more knowing he’s not boring the other man to death. 

“So that’s how I ended up here, basically,” Louis concludes after spending ages talking about how enjoys rustling places and the nightlife. “Running the only bar in some remote town. Figured even in a small place like this, people need to enjoy, right? And good thing it clicked with the locals, or else I’d have myself out on the streets.”

“Looks like business is good, though,” Harry pitches in. “Seems like everyone visits.”

“Eh, mixed,” Louis explains. “There are some days where it’s a fucking ghost town and we get like, what, five customers the whole day? But then there are those days, like last Friday, _oh God._ That was intense.”

“What’s with Friday?”

“So me and my good friend, Niall, were running the counter right,” Louis says, animatedly telling his story as he goes. “And it’s a normal Friday night – usual customers and all – then suddenly this huge crowd just floods in and it was quite overwhelming honestly. Never seen that many people in one place before. I mean, don’t get me wrong – it’s really good for the business; it’s just, unusual, is all.”

“Maybe somebody put in a good word,” Harry suggests, eyes trained at a singular point in the distance. 

“Nah,” Louis disagrees. “Everyone just probably simultaneously had a shit day.”

The sun starts to dip into the horizon, the space around it painted in silky orange and yellow hues – it’s the sunset that Louis has grown to love, the one he’s been favoring for the last couple of years. It’s the sunset that Louis wanted Harry to witness, to get a fine glimpse of before it disappears into the night. But, Harry already seems to be absorbed by the skyline and its stunning view, as well – it’s almost like he wants to tread into it and get lost in it forever, like he wants to do nothing more than to reach out and swirl his hands in the warm glow, like it’s the first sunset he’s ever seen. 

They stay like that for what feels like forever – just staring out into the open sky, hands ghosting over the warmth of the other’s, circling around in each other’s headspace. It’s silent, but Louis can feel his heart beating so loudly. 

Just as quickly as it peaked, it fades out of view. What once was a canvas of oranges and gold is now cooler in shade, welcoming the impending night. 

“ _Wow_ ,” is all Harry can manage to say. 

In this light, the youth shines through him – he’s absolutely golden, smiling with childlike amusement. “Is that the view you get everyday?”

“Well, if you have a view of the west,” Louis says. “I mean, I _could’ve_ had that view, but then this other building just sets up right in front of my window and blocks my whole view, so I don’t have a view of the sunset, no, but at least I have bricks, right?”

“You’re so fucking sarcastic,” Harry remarks, but he’s got amusement written all over his face, and it fills Louis with an odd kind of satisfaction that he couldn’t quite place.

“It’s a flaw I’ve come to accept,” Louis mockingly says, laying a hand on his chest in an attempt to further his play.

“Must I accept this fated flaw as well?” Harry plays along.

Louis doesn’t know why he says it; or, why he even _thought_ it was some wild, clever idea to do so. But, once the words fly out of his lips, he can’t just reach out in haste and take it back, bury it deep into the crevices of his mind, and will it to fade from existence forever. Because in that moment, it’s already floating about in the air. “If you plan on being with me, yeah.”

And _fuck_ , Louis hates himself sometimes.

The tranquil air engulfs them both, but it seems to consume Louis more. He’s got his eyes shut and his lips tightly pressed together, throwing mental curses at himself. He doesn’t dare peek at Harry’s reaction, nor does he want to. But, he does. He does because Louis’ body fucking hates him, and it will not stop at anything to embarrass him even further. 

Harry looks just as deep in thought as he did minutes ago; however, the corner of his lips are curled up into a small smile, and Louis doesn’t know what to make of that. He wishes one of them would break the silence, but Louis is positive that he doesn’t want to be the one to do it in blatant fear that he’ll say something even more scarring. 

And Louis thanks _god_ , the heavens, or whatever divine being lies beyond the stars when Harry breaks the silence first, “I might just have to stay here forever, then.”

Louis doesn’t die, but he’s pretty sure his heart stopped.


	3. III.

**III.**

“You’re different.”

The comment pierces through the still air, right in the space where Louis and Niall are seated on the laminated floor, poking their hands into boxes and pulling out the newest liquor deliveries. It’s not Louis’ favorite activity, that’s for sure – it always ends with Niall whining about his aching back and with Louis taking the used tape from the boxes and sticking it onto Niall’s unsuspecting back while he’s turned around. 

_For science_ , Louis always says.

“ _Gee_ , thanks, I love being a unique individual with a heart of—”

“No, not that kind of different,” Niall clarifies, squinting at Louis as if he’s some mysterious specimen that just popped up in the wild. “You—you’re smiling too much. It scares me.”

“What? I can’t be happy? In this _economy_?” Louis kids around, peeling the tape off a box and sticking it right onto Niall’s knee with whatever adhesive it’s got left. For the first time, Niall doesn’t mind; but maybe Louis owes that to Niall’s unwavering focus on Louis’ “different” attribute today.

“First of all, our economy is shit,” Niall replies, suspicion spreading throughout his features. “Second, you _know_ what I’m talking about so spill.”

“ _Spill_?” Louis lets out a short, half-suppressed laugh. “What are we? Thirteen?”

“No, we’re stalling.” Niall fishes out a clear bottle filled with bronze-tinted liquor from a slim, dark gray box. He sets it on the floor beside him where dozens of other bottles lie. He, then, turns his attention back to Louis. “What’s got you so smiley?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Louis gets up to leave, taking as much as he can carry with him. He ambles towards the counter, but he’s stopped when the said slim, dark gray box hits him straight in the shin. “Okay, _ow_.”

“You win the lottery or something?” Niall pushes, unrelenting in his agenda to squeeze a story out of the other man. 

“I wish—”

“Secretly married a billionaire?”

“That’s the dream—”

“Got a boyfriend?”

“Not _exactly_ , but—”

“Aha!”

Louis would be lying if he said that Niall’s reaction didn’t scare him. He nearly drops the bottles he’s carefully cradling in his arms, and he mumbles a curse into the void as he manages to save them from losing hundreds worth of pricey spirits. “D’you really have to do that when I’m carrying, oh, I don’t know, our _entire business_ with me?”

“You weren’t dropping hints,” Niall casually explains, as if that makes up for it.

“Well, _yeah_ , ‘cause I was too busy nearly dropping all our alcohol.”

“Alcohol, schmalcohol,” Niall mocks, a prying grin replacing his triumphant look. “So, who is he?”

“Just the fact that you would _assume_ —”

“ _Louis_.”

“His name’s Harry,” Louis gives in, avoiding the look of absolute victory spreading across Niall’s face. He’s managed to wade his way onto the bar shelves now, where he sets down all the bottles he was carrying. “Well, okay, I wouldn’t exactly call him my _boyfriend_ considering we’re not together.”

“Where’d you meet this non-boyfriend boyfriend?” Niall asks, and Louis sticks a tongue out at him.

“Like, a week ago? I think,” Louis tries to recall, piecing together multiple fragments of his memory to try and recreate the mental vision in his head. “That one night you bailed and I had to run the fucking counter all alone.”

“I was _sick_ ,” Niall pulls up an excuse, but Louis still doesn’t buy it.

“Whatever you say.”

“Okay, _fine_ , I slept in,” Niall admits with a huff, crossing his arms over his chest. “Same thing. But anyway, that’s beside the point. Continue.”

“Yeah, well,” Louis resumes. “I was closing up at like four in the morning – just managed to get those booth kids out before they overstayed again. Then, suddenly there’s this guy at the door, right, and I’m thinking _oh shit, danger_. So, I make up all these scenarios in my head about what could possibly go wrong – I noted down haunting, robbery, or stranger that can’t read signs and has no track of time.”

“You forgot the alien invasion,” Niall pitches in.

“That’s it!” Louis slaps his forehead. “I wanted to make a list of four but my worried ass couldn’t think straight.”

Niall snickers, and Louis knows exactly why. “Yeah, yeah, can’t think straight ‘cause I’m not straight. Get some new content, Niall.”

Doubling up in laughter, Niall says, “It’s a classic.”

“You’re lucky I’m in a relatively good mood.”

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry.” Niall calms down eventually, but not after he’s got tears pooling at the corners of his eyes and pale cheeks tinged pink. He clutches his stomach in his attempt to maintain a serious demeanor, and with a lopsided grin, he goes, “Go on.”

Louis can’t help but smile, as well. He’s always up for a bad joke, no matter how played out it is. “So yeah, there I was, thinking about whether the bottles were a good enough weapon or if I should take the extra few steps and take the baseball bat from the backroom.”

“Dramatic,” Niall plugs in, which earns him a flick on the nose. “ _Ow_.” 

“So _moving on_.” Louis gets up from his position on the hardwood floor and props himself up against a bar stool, instead, to which Niall joins him from the other side of the counter, palms pressed up flat against the bar as Louis carries on with his story. “Turns out he’s this, not kidding, super _breathtaking_ guy and he walks in with a fucking expensive looking coat and an apology. He says he got caught in the rain and true enough, it was pouring outside. So, like the decent human I am, I let him in and allowed him a few drinks. That’s basically it.”

“Ooh.” Niall’s got a suggestive smile tugging at the corners of his lips, waving a brow at Louis as he leans in further. “Is that _really_ all there is to it?”

“You pig,” Louis throws back, but a nagging smile etches itself right onto his face. “I just made him a couple of drinks – _pretty_ drinks – in his words. We spent fifteen minutes going off about Bloodhounds, for fuck’s sake. Then, we just sort of got to chatting about normal people things – our names, where we’re from, what we do, that kinda thing.”

“So, who is he?” Niall rests on his elbows, eyes trained straight at Louis as he waits for an answer to his question. Niall’s genuinely interested; it’s not everyday that they get new people in their small, remote town, let alone people that catch Louis’ eye – and Niall has known Louis for a good four years now, he _knows_ the blue-eyed boy is an absolute terror to please. 

“Says he’s a doctor,” Louis starts, pulling up bits of information from his mental bank as he goes. “Forgot to ask him where he’s from, but he sounds English, so there’s that. But he says he moves around a lot, like, a _lot_.”

“Sketchy,” is all Niall says, and Louis huffs.

“Well, he’s a doctor, so I assume they have those medical expedition things,” Louis assumes, trying to make sense out of his fragmented thoughts.

“You mean medical _missions_.”

“I know what I said,” Louis defends. “It’s just – he’s so unreal. Like, he’s kind, and he’s funny, and he’s hot – did you know he could speak fourteen languages? _Fourteen_? Tell me that’s not hot.”

“That’s not hot,” Niall deadpans.

“Smartass,” Louis retorts, and Niall smiles in utter satisfaction. 

The conversation delves in deeper, and soon enough, Louis’ got words flying out of his mouth, encompassing all his pent up feelings and frustrations about the curly-haired boy he’s known for a _week_ , and yet his presence lingers in Louis’ mind like he’s known him forever. 

The moment Louis blurts out, “I didn’t even know guys like him could exist”, Niall offers to fish out the alcohol, claiming some hard liquor could help soothe his nerves and bring relief to his desires. Louis slaps Niall’s hand as it reaches out for the half-drained bottle of golden tequila on the counter, saying, “We open in an hour, you dick.”

Despite Niall’s many attempts to convince Louis that they could sober up by then, Louis lets his professionalism make his final decision, no matter how _badly_ he wanted to flood his system with spirits. And so they talk, completely sober, but Louis somehow feels drunk on scattered thoughts and his aching longing.

*****

“So, when do I get to meet this _Harry_ character?” Niall asks as he leans in towards a customer fronting the bar, trying to catch her order above the blaring music bouncing off the packed walls of the bar.

Niall, then, shouts the order out to Louis who’s already got his hands wrapped around the necessary bottles and flasks. “Got it!”

After a series of mixes and shakes, Louis pours out the tinted content into a fragile glass, watching the liquid slosh around the container. He finishes it off with a pair of green olives dropped into the bitter-smelling drink, and hands it right over to Niall, who hands it right over to the girl by the counter. 

The room is a whirlwind of idle chatter, adorned with the presence of brightly colored drinks and hollow laughter. Niall sides up to Louis, wiping his hands onto a dishtowel as they both take the stagnant moment to breathe. “He come around here often?”

Louis knows Niall’s referring to Harry, and Louis shakes his head, “Nah, haven’t seen him in here since that one time I told you about. And that was purely coincidental.”

“You never know,” Niall shrugs. “With you here, he could have another reason to visit more.”

Louis doesn’t let it show, but he feels the inconvenient heat rushing to his cheeks once more – he’s blushing over something so shallow, so indefinite, and he wonders how he ever survived last Sunday without erupting into a mess of pink-stained cheeks and jitters. “Doubt he’s much of a bar guy, anyway. He seemed more fascinated by the _colors_ of the drinks rather than the actual drinks themselves.”

“Eh, give yourself more credit,” Niall offers. “How much you wanna bet he’ll come strolling in all of a sudden?”

Louis doesn’t get to spare his end of the bet (for good measure, he was going to answer that there’s no chance, because there’s no way Harry would just come wandering in, although he was deeply hoping he would); before he could reply, a patron calls out Niall’s name from across the bar, waving a hand in the open air. 

Niall takes forever – Louis catches a glimpse of the blond-haired boy having a laugh with a group of customers seated around a booth. Amidst all the buzz, Niall cracks a joke which sends the whole bunch in fits. Louis figures Niall’s not going to be back anytime soon, so he turns his back and starts fiddling with the small table behind him, corking up bottles and wiping dried stains off the mahogany counter. 

The clock drifts to a little after midnight, and the ambient noise is louder than ever. All the bar stools are filled up by tipsy businessmen and blabbering figures in their early twenties – just about the usual. All around them stand their regular customers, caught up in their own personal realms. 

For a moment, Louis only hears the music. That is, until a familiar voice floats above the rest. “Have you got anything pink?”

Louis turns around to come face-to-face with the one and only man he was certain he’d never see within his bar (Louis mentally swears, hating the fact that Niall always seems to come out right). There’s a look of pure surprise on Louis’ face upon seeing the bright-eyed man with his subtle smile, leaning up against the counter on his silk-clad elbows. 

“Hi,” is all Harry says, but it’s enough to make Louis want to faint right there and then. 

“Harry,” Louis utters, and it sounds more like a confirmation of disbelief rather than a proper greeting. 

“What? Harry? Who’s that?” Harry kids, beaming right at Louis. “Don’t know him.”

Louis scrunches up his nose at Harry, attempting to conceal a laugh that’s threatening to burst out. “You’re a huge dork, you know that?”

“I’m not a huge dork,” Harry replies, face completely serious. “I’m Harry.”

Louis has never slapped his own forehead so hard in his life. 

After a few more minutes of playful banter and Louis thinking, oh fuck, he’s actually here, he’s _really, really, really here_ , Harry requests for another pretty drink, much like he did during his first visit. This time, he claims he wants something pink and dainty with another fruit slice wedged onto the brim, and so Louis brings him a fresh Paloma, with a couple of extra grapefruit slices on the side. 

“Really sorry I can’t offer you a seat,” Louis apologizes, gesturing at the line of patrons littering the counter stools. “S’kinda our packed hour.”

“Don’t apologize,” Harry answers, pink drink still in hand. “I got it.”

And Louis doesn’t know how, but suddenly, three men get up from their seats on the stools, simultaneously taking out their wallets and dropping their pay onto the counter. They all look a little spaced out, if Louis were to say so himself (he figures that maybe it’s just the intoxication), and they all leave together, shouting a “bye, Louis!” in unison. Now, there are three vacant spots right in front of Louis, and Harry drops right into the center seat. 

Harry brings the glass up to his upturned lips in full ease, almost like he _knew_ the men would leave. 

“Must be your lucky day,” Louis remarks, letting out an incredulous laugh. “Usually, those guys don’t leave until about two AM.”

“ _Lucky_ ,” Harry repeats, rolling the word around his tongue like it’s foreign to him. “D’you believe in luck, Louis?”

Louis hums in deep thought, wondering if he _did_ actually believe in the indeterminable concepts of luck, fate, destiny, and the like. Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t – it really depends on circumstance to him. Does Louis believe he’s lucky enough to win the lottery and become a multi-millionaire overnight? No. Does Louis believe he was lucky enough that Harry stumbled into _his_ establishment that one fateful morning? Possibly yes. 

“I suppose,” Louis affirms, shrugging as he tries to explain himself. “But not in the sense that I’ll leave everything to fate; I mean, of course, you still have to pitch in the right amount of work and effort. But, luck in the sense that I acknowledge that some things are brought on by chance, then yeah.”

Harry presses his lips together, pondering Louis’ answers, as it seems. 

“Am I making sense?” Louis asks, worrying about the sense, or lack thereof, of whatever’s been slipping out of his mouth. Louis does have the tendency to blurt out absurd things, so he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d just been going off about a load of rubbish just minutes ago. It’s a sign of reassurance when Harry nods, definite and sure, and Louis sighs in relief. “How ‘bout you?”

“Uncontrollable luck?” Harry starts, then shakes his head. “I don’t think I do. Like, I think we can manipulate everything we see. We’re crafted to believe that there are a lot of impossible things in this world that are out of our control, but I think they’re not as far-fetched as they seem.”

Louis pretends like he understands where the hell Harry is going with this. “Like, I think it’s wholly possible to influence events with inhuman forces, but still be human nonetheless.”

“Okay, that was just contradictory,” Louis laughs, and Harry animatedly pouts. “Another drink?”

Harry glances down at his now-empty glass, his frown deepening. “Yes, please.”

Louis slides him another drink – this time, it’s an electric-blue Cosmopolitan. Harry’s frown fades away, replaced with an amused smile at the sight of the cocktail. Louis is downright charmed by Harry’s fascination with colors, even more so fuelled by the thought that he played a part in it. “So, why’d you suddenly decide to drop by?”

Harry gazes up at Louis, glass at his lips as their eyes meet. “Well, aside from the obvious fact that these are so _good_ ,” Harry points at his drink which he sets down gently onto the counter. “I came to see you.”

Louis’ heart does not flutter; it does not flutter; it does not flutter; and oh fuck, Louis thinks, it _does_. “Come on, you saw me yesterday.”

He’s not even going to deny it to himself, but he’s fishing, because he just knows that he revels in the warm sensation of Harry making small but significant comments in Louis’ favor. 

“S’not enough,” Harry says matter-of-factly, as if it’s common information, as if Louis should know by now that Harry enjoys him and his presence. “I’d love to see you everyday, if I could.”

Then, Harry’s eyes widen. “Not in a stalker-ish way! I swear, I don’t do that. Just, like, see you if you want to see me.”

It’s Harry’s turn to have a pink tinge dusted across his cheeks, making him look so much more youthful in the dim light. When Louis laughs, hearty and fond, Harry childishly pouts, his lower lip sticking out as he does so. “I ruined the moment. I was trying to be a proper romancer.”

“ _Romancer?_ ” Louis decides to take the piss out of the word. “Are we living in medieval times?”

“It’s a classic word,” Harry pushes, defending his honor. “And don’t even tell me my _romancing_ didn’t work.”

“If it didn’t?” Louis leads on with a teasing laugh. Of course, he’s lying. The whole unseen universe probably knows about Louis’ fierce attraction to the other man even from the very first moment he stepped into Louis’ bar; they know how uncontrollably Louis trembles at the slightest touch of Harry’s fingertips; they know how strong Louis’ desire to pull Harry up by his silky collar and press their lips together in one, sweeping motion is. He’s only playing, and the world knows that.

“Then, you’d be lying,” Harry claims, sure as he’s ever been.

“And, if I say that it did work?” Louis presses on, unaware that his body was involuntarily leaning up against the counter, inching closer and closer to the waiting boy on the other end. 

They’re close enough that Louis can feel Harry’s breath on his lips – slow but steady, paced but persistent. Louis’ eyelids fall shut, allowing his eyelashes to flutter as he gradually closes the distance between them. 

And he can feel it – he can feel the heat flow through them, encompassing both their bodies as their faces lay mere spaces apart. He knows Harry’s smiling, and he can swear this with utmost certainty, even behind closed lids. Harry’s hand comes up to rest against Louis’ cheek, soft and cautious as he aids Louis closer, and closer, and closer, until –

“Hello, boys!” A familiar voice shouts out, and Louis hadn’t even noticed that as he delved deeper and deeper into the moment, he’s managed to shut out all the ambient music around him. Suddenly, he’s pulled back into a sea of noise and _Today’s Top 40_ , feeling extremely disappointed and so, so, so close. 

Louis turns to Niall with a scrunched up forehead and tightly pressed lips. “Seriously?”

Niall appears a little oblivious to the fact that he’s just torn apart a highly-anticipated moment – he’s still a ball of wide smiles and eyes full of intrigue – and he walks, nearly _bounces_ , right up to his best friend. “What’s cooking over here?”

It comes as a blur when Niall pats Louis on the shoulder and rests his eyes on the stranger, to him, seated right across the counter. Niall fixes his gaze on Louis, whose got an upset frown etched on his disappointed features and his arms stubbornly crossed across his heavily rising chest. Then, Niall turns towards the other man who had just been a few inches from Louis’ face – he’s a blushing mess that can’t seem to hold eye contact with the intruding boy for more than two seconds, and he’s aimlessly twiddling with his thumbs as he sucks in his bottom lip, even bites on it for good measure. It just now dawns on Niall. “Oh, shit.”

“’Oh, shit’ is right,” Louis replies.

“Guess you want me to skedaddle, right?” Niall nervously laughs, clasping his hands together and teetering on his toes as he awaits an answer. 

Louis is displeased, but he just lets out all his dismay in one deep, heavy sigh. He figures that eventually, he’ll be able to close the distance between him and Harry for real – maybe today just wasn’t the right time. Besides, Harry didn’t seem opposed to it at all; in fact, he seemed equally eager for it, even. Louis takes it as a good sign, and supposes he’ll get that kiss _soon_. “No, no, no, stay.”

Niall walks back from where he’s already taken two steps into the opposite direction, trying his best to rid himself of the embarrassment of coming between Louis and his _mystery boy._

“Harry,” Louis introduces, motioning at the man beside him. “This is Niall, my best mate. And Niall, this is Harry, my uh—“ Louis doesn’t know how to complete that sentence. “Harry. That’s Harry.”

The two men exchange warm smiles and greetings. Harry extends a hand for Niall to shake, but Niall disregards it and pulls Harry into a big, welcoming embrace instead. At the corner of Louis’ eye, he can see Niall raising a brow at him and mouthing, _‘is this your boyfriend?’_ , to which Louis mouths back a _‘I wish’._

“Nice to finally meet you,” Niall says after they’ve separated. “Louis talks about you a _lot_.”

In that moment, Louis reconsiders his and Niall’s friendship. 

Harry’s lips curl up into an amused smile, looking straight at Louis. “Does he?”

“Yeah, ‘course!” Niall excitedly exclaims. “He says you’re, like, super—”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Louis interrupts; hoping to _dear God_ Niall doesn’t blurt out anything he shouldn’t. “This isn’t ‘meet the parents’.”

“Meet the parents?” Niall questions. “Isn’t that for _couples_ —”

“Oops, cleanup in booth five!” Louis hands Niall a rag and a spray bottle and points to the direction of the recently vacated booth. “They personally requested you.”

“I didn’t hear anything—”

“ _Niall_ ,” Louis cuts off with a tone of finality. 

“On it!” 

Niall rounds the corner quickly and dashes straight towards the booth, leaving Louis and Harry alone once more. 

“He seems—“ Harry squints, wracking his brain for the best word to suit the blond boy. Finally, he settles on, “Lively.”

“That’s Niall for you.”

Louis figures the moment’s long gone, so he resorts to going back to his work – after all, he’s still bound by his work hours; his shift doesn’t end for another three hours anyway. Throughout the remaining hours of his shift, Louis tries to suppress all thoughts about what just happened because he knows that if he lets the raging thoughts consume him, he’ll never get any work done today, possibly ever. 

But, as he wipes down a booth table at the far end of the bar, his mind drifts to Harry’s breath on his skin – waiting, lingering, and settling. As he rearranges the liquor bottles on the shelves, he relishes Harry’s gentle touch, and how it framed his face just perfectly. As he mixes up another colored drink for Harry, who’s been waiting around for over two hours now, Louis thinks about what could’ve happened, and how much he _yearns_ for it to repeat itself – this time, he wills it to go further. 

At a quarter to four, almost all their customers have trickled out, leaving Niall, Harry, and Louis within the vicinity. 

“I’m gonna head on out,” Niall shouts from the backroom. “Pretty sure I left a scented candle burning.”

“Why would you even have a scented candle in the first place?” Louis asks; he never took Niall as a candle sort of guy.

Niall replies with a huff and a wave, “I like it when my bathroom smells like fucking _lavender_.” And with that, he leaves, bag slung over his shoulder and body slipping out of the door. 

Transitioning from the heavy bass and blaring music that had just been playing hours before, the speakers now play a softer tune, strong on the acoustics and echoes. It’s some indie folk band that Louis has only heard of once, but the music accompanies the tranquil atmosphere quite nicely. Harry’s still seated on the stool, picking at a plate of chips Louis served him up. 

“You know,” Louis breaks the silence, wiping down the counter in front of Harry. “You didn’t have to wait for me.”

A reassuring smile is on Harry’s face as he says, “I wanted to. Besides, no way am I letting you walk home alone at four AM, it’s too dangerous out there.”

“I’ve lived here all my life,” Louis answers. “The scariest thing out there is probably that Chihuahua in my building. It’s got paws of steel, that one.”

“Louis, it’s a _dog_ ,” Harry replies, eyes full of mirth.

“Yeah, a _deadly_ dog.”

To that, Harry giggles – actually _giggles_. And he’s not being dramatic, not at all (well, maybe a little), but Harry’s giggle sounded like a fucking godsend. It’s light and airy, and it’s pretty contagious as it is. Louis wants to sink into the sound forever, however odd it may seem. 

“I can walk you home,” Harry offers, directing his attention to Louis. “And protect your honor from the, uh, dog.” 

“Sounds like a mission – a _spy_ mission.”

“Should I bring out the spandex?”

Louis actually snorts; it was quick and uncontrollable, and it’s not like Louis likes snorting around people, let alone people he _likes_ , but he’s just hoping that in some strange, parallel universe, maybe it comes off as attractive. 

“No, seriously.” Louis removes his apron and folds his up, tossing it into the cupboard for tomorrow’s use. He slides out the now-empty plate from beneath Harry’s arms and washes it before wiping it down and keeping it in its storage. “If it’s too much of a bother, you don’t have to.”

Here he is again – fishing for his life. Of course, he wants Harry to walk him home; not that he needs it, but it’s more of a want at this point. And Harry, with his bright eyes and deep voice, says, “You’re never a bother to me.”

Louis slaps Harry's hand with a dishtowel.


	4. IV.

**IV.**

The cold September air stings – seeping into Louis’ windbreaker and running endless shivers through Louis’ skin.

He can barely get a single word out, with how much his teeth are chattering. If anything, any phrase that manages to escape his lips would be in the form of repeated consonants and a tremble, and he doubts that would be a very productive conversation at that. 

Harry, on the other hand, remains unbothered. His hands are tucked into the deep pockets of his coat, and the shirt he’s got layered inside his coat has the first three buttons loose, exposing his chest to the harsh, bitter winds. Louis doesn’t know how Harry does it, but he’s walking around like it’s fucking _Spring_ , and Louis is amazed. 

“How are you not cold?” Louis asks through gritted teeth.

“Uh, I’m not cold—” Harry easily responds, lips pressed in a tight line before he continues, “Because I’m Harry.”

“What the fuck,” is what comes out of Louis’ mouth, although he’s pretty sure that was meant to be in a thought bubble of some sort. But, _eh_ , maybe he was meant to say it out loud. 

Harry erupts into laughter, and somewhere in that spontaneous brain of Harry’s, he’s probably giving himself a mental pat on the back. 

“You’re a fucking dad, you know that?” Louis remarks, eyes fixed on Harry, who was looking quite animated in this light. 

“Relax, I was just _kid_ -ding,” Harry cracks again, and oh God. “Get it? Kid? ‘Cause you called me a dad?”

“Remind me never to respond to your jokes, yeah?” Louis plays around, trying his absolute best to sound serious, but his lips are locked in an unavoidable smile, and he ends up sounding _pleased_ more than anything. “I can’t believe I’m actually laugh—”

Louis notices Harry’s mouth opening up to speak, and he knows it’s to utter another lame joke. “Don’t even _think_ about it.”

Harry pouts, lightly nudging Louis with his elbow. “Admit it, you’re _endeared_.”

“With you?” Louis voices out – and he doesn’t know where he roots the confidence from, if it’s from the chilly air that wraps around them, or if it’s from the carefree attitude he’s suddenly developed in the past couple of minutes. Either way, he doesn’t expect it from himself when he says, “I so am.”

Louis hadn’t even noticed that he was standing right in front of his apartment building’s front entrance, greeted by the shut lights and clouded glass door. He’s about to turn around, notify Harry that they’ve reached their destination, and thank him for bringing him home at this late hour; but before he does, Harry’s got his hands cupping Louis’ face, his cheekbones resting at the mercy of Harry’s fingertips. 

Harry’s lips are on his, and wow, Louis feels like flying. 

It’s the feeling of suppressed desire and ultimate freedom fused into one, and Louis can’t quite describe it, but it’s liberating and captivating at the same time. Harry struggles to get them closer, up until their bodies are pressed up together, merely separated by the thin layers of clothing between them. 

Suddenly, Louis doesn’t feel cold. He forgets about the chills and the shivers and the harsh winds that battered against his skin just moments ago because now – now, he’s enveloped in Harry’s warmth and that’s enough for him. 

Still at Louis’ side, his arms reach out, wrapping themselves around Harry’s shoulders loosely, attempting to catch onto some semblance of stability as he leans up and pushes them closer together. Harry tastes of sweetness, and Louis did not expect anything else.

His mind’s a blur at this point; his thoughts going into overdrive, whirling around like tornadoes in his head, but one thing remains constant throughout it all – it’s Harry. Harry who’s got Louis’ searching fingers laced through his hair; Harry who’s got his lips keen and raw against Louis’ own, as if Louis was any better; Harry who, well, Harry who’s everything Louis wants in the moment, and possibly all the moments to come. 

But he can’t go so far as to make that last claim; at least, not yet. 

“Wow,” is all Louis can say with lips tinged a darker shade of pink and cheeks flushed. 

“Wow,” Harry agrees, and it seems that’s the only word both boys could utter at this point. 

“I don’t know, I’ve only known you for a week, right, but it kinda feels like I’ve known you forever, “ Louis blurts out, and now that he hears himself again, repeats the words he just said in his head, he realizes how cliché it sounds, and he’s embarrassed once more. “Was that too cheesy?”

Harry’s a giggling mess in front of him, staring straight down at Louis with a particular glint in his eyes that somehow manages to calm down Louis’ racing heart. “Mm, yeah, a little bit.”

Louis laughs – maybe he’s laughing at himself, maybe he’s laughing at the overwhelming situation they’ve gotten themselves tangled in, maybe he’s laughing at purely _nothing_. Either way, he felt the dire need to express his happiness. “See, here’s the thing. Why’s it that every time _you_ flirt, it’s all a good time and when I try a hand at flirting, I sound like a fucking mess.”

“Don’t worry,” Harry assures. “I can deal with it.”

“ _Oh_ , so you _agree_ ,” Louis raises a brow at Harry, who only takes Louis’ hand and pulls him closer once again. Louis scrunches his nose, pretends to be upset for a simple second before he can’t take it any longer. 

“In fact, I feel like I want to deal with you forever.” And if that doesn’t make Louis feel a lot lighter on his feet, crazed with the sweeping notion of _Harry, Harry, Harry,_ then he’s not quite sure what else can. 

“Shit, you’re good at that,” Louis starts, but the last few words of his sentence are muffled by the presence of Harry’s still warm lips on his, sudden but entirely welcome. 

Harry whispers an _‘I know’_ into the kiss, but Louis is too far-gone to register an appropriate response to that. So, he does what he can; he allows his eyelids to flutter closed and get lost in the ephemeral moment, trying to grip as much as he can into permanence. 

Behind Harry, a series of street lamps simultaneously spark as Harry grips onto Louis tighter, their dim yellow glows fading out into the nights. It comes so that both Harry and Louis are now wrapped in nothing but the darkness and each other, but Louis doesn’t mind, because even in the near darkness, Louis could still make out Harry’s soft features – his eyelids gently falling shut with each passing breath, his eyelashes fluttering whenever he’d look up at Louis, and his lips that Louis could trace out forever.

*****

“Coffee?”

Louis presses down on a button on his coffee maker, igniting a gentle whiz as the liquid brews inside it. The warm smell of coffee wafted throughout his apartment, reaching Harry’s senses, who was spread out on Louis’ couch. “Mm, that smells good.”

“Doesn’t it?” Louis proudly grins, patting his machine. “Just got it online a week ago. The capsules smell _so_ good.” 

“Living fancy, aren’t you?” Harry teases, which makes Louis stick a tongue out at him. “Back in my day, we used, what? A kettle and a spoon?”

“ _Back in my day_ ,” Louis mocks, snickering at Harry’s choice of words. “You’re not ancient, Harry.”

“Well, I could be.” It comes off as a joke, a playful reply of some sort, but somehow it sounds like there was a tinge of seriousness to it, like there was a deeper meaning attached to it. Louis decides not to press on it further.

“But anyway.” Louis tiptoes to reach for two mugs in the upper cupboard, grabbing them by their handles when he’s got a good enough grip on them. He brings them down and sets it under his coffee machine, where the steaming drink pours itself down in sprays. “I get home at, like, five AM everyday, and sometimes I have to run errands in the morning ‘cause that’s the only time I _can_ do them. So, most of the time, I have to keep myself awake long enough.”

Louis strolls towards Harry’s comfortable position on the couch, sprawled out across the entire expanse like he’s been there before, like it’s a familiar space for him. Louis doesn’t mind, though – in a way, it provides a sense of stability. “Hence, my trusty coffee machine. The capsules are super strong and shit, usually keeps me up for ages.”

A mug is handed over to Harry, and steam rises from the top. The moment the mug is cradled between his fingertips, Harry immediately takes a sip, as if the boiling hot liquid didn’t faze him. 

“Someone’s pain tolerance is off the roof,” Louis notices, smiling up from the brim of his own mug, where he’s blowing gently to rid his drink of some of its heat. 

“Practice, I guess,” Harry says, and Louis laughs. 

“How do you practice _drinking coffee?_ ” 

“It’s like,” Harry thinks, trying to find the appropriate words to use in the situation. “Sports.”

“You did _not_ just compare drinking coffee to sports,” Louis retorts, a smile playing on his lips, stained with the bitter taste of coffee. 

“Oops, I just did.” Harry shrugs, the corner of his lips twisting up. “Same thing. It makes you feel hot and it energizes you. And don’t tell me there’s no physical activity involved when you press on the buttons.”

Louis shakes his head incredulously. “I can’t believe you just defended that.”

“I’ll defend _you_ ,” Harry lets slip, and Louis slaps him on the arm. 

“Stop with the cheesy lines, you’re making my skills look like shit,” Louis pouts, setting his mug down on his coffee table before crossing his arms in a stubborn manner. “You know, I used to think I was smooth, now I just feel _rough_.”

“Rough?” Harry sits up straighter, an opportunistic look spread all across his face, and _fuck_ , Louis knows he just triggered something – he just knows there’s a terrible joke coming into play. “Did somebody hear a dog?”

Louis has never groaned louder in his life.

*****

A week passes by after their first kiss under the moonlight, and Louis could still feel the pleasant warmth of Harry running through him, filling his senses with nothing but thoughts of the other man.

Harry comes by nearly everyday of that week, softly knocking at Louis’ door and beaming widely when Louis pulls him in, hurriedly locking the door behind him. They love nothing more than to revel in each other’s touch, and so they make do – everyday could be defined with their bodies pressed up against one another, smiling into each others’ lips as they mumble sweet nothings, trying as much as they can to keep the other close. 

It’s on a particular Monday morning that they feel particularly calm, choosing to lie down on Louis’ beaten couch and taking paced breaths into each other’s skin. They spend the next few waking hours entangled in each other, growing more and more certain of each other as the minutes passed by. There’s an arm draped over Louis, pulling him closer into the other’s chest, where he lies with his hand rested on Harry’s stomach, lightly tugging at the soft material that layers upon his skin. Louis doesn’t quite know how they ended up here – wrapped around in each other’s warmth, mumbling idle questions about anything and everything about the universe – but he doesn’t want to let go. 

Not a single urge to sleep bothers Louis, and he knows he’ll probably regret it later on when he’s back en route to work again, but for now, he couldn’t imagine sleeping, not when he’s got the most beautiful man he’s ever laid eyes on in his whole existence beneath him; not when their breaths are patterned so, and their eyes can’t stop stealing glances at one another. 

It’s just now, in the subtle light shed upon the peeking rays of the sun through Louis’ sheer gray curtains, that Louis takes a good look at Harry’s eyes. They’re green – and Louis has seen many green-eyed faces in his lifetime, but Harry’s proved to be different. He notices it now, all the minor details, all the little specks that a mere passerby would miss. 

His eyes are liked jade, like precious stones rounded up in one gaze. There are strokes of forest green shades spread across them, mixing themselves up in a pool of light and dark. It looks almost unreal in this light, but it fills Louis with the urge to get lost in them forever, to tread the unfamiliar yet entirely familiar grounds until he can’t find his way out. 

It’s crazy, the effect Harry has on him.

“You know, I’ve never actually _seen_ you go to work,” Louis mutters, and it baffles him why he said that, especially considering their current state. He figures too late on in his question that work _probably_ isn’t the best cuddling topic one can come up with. But, there’s nothing he can do about it now – Louis isn’t one to suppress his curiosity.

True as it is, he’s never once seen Harry leave for work; nor has he seen Harry perform any _doctor-related_ things. It’s not like Louis is expecting Harry to walk around town dressed in scrubs and a stethoscope – it’s highly unrealistic and quite frankly, absurd. It’s just that in the half month that he’s known Harry, he hasn’t exactly seen him at work.

Harry visibly fidgets beneath him, and he breathes out an answer a beat too late. “I’m more of an on-call kind of guy. And also, I do trips out of town a lot, working on developing new medicines in nearby facilities. That sort of thing.”

“M-hm,” Louis acknowledges, leaning back to rest his head on Harry’s shoulder. 

“They don’t need me yet, as of the moment,” Harry continues. “But they’ll call on me if they need my, uh, _expertise_. I’m a free man right now.”

“No wonder you’re always at the bar,” Louis says. “I swear, Niall’s warming up to you so easily. He talks to you more than _me_ now.”

“Can’t help it that I’m so charming,” Harry kids around, causing Louis to scoff at the statement. “Like a prince.”

“Get off your high horse,” Louis comments back, and it’s not long after that he instantly regrets letting those words fly off his lips. 

“High horse? Horse?” Harry pushes on, and Louis is right beside him, burying himself in some mental state wherein all external sounds are muffled, hopefully enough to block out the outside world. “Get it? ‘Cause I said I’m a prince? Princes go with horses?”

“I’m not even sure how to respond to that,” Louis honestly admits because _what the actual fuck._

“I should just drop everything and do stand-up comedy.” Harry stares up at the ceiling, uttering his most spontaneous thoughts at the top of his head. Louis doesn’t quite mind the rambling, because he’s developed an odd fascination with the way Harry works – the thoughts that run through his head, the reactions he deems fit for every situation, the humor that he’s managed to craft himself; it’s all extremely intriguing to the smaller boy. 

“You should do that, then I could be your first joke,” Louis pitches in, squinting up at Harry for approval. “Did I get the whole humor thing right?”

Harry hums, and then scrunches up his nose in disagreement. “A little on the pessimistic side, but we can work on that when you've got the time."

“I _wish_ I could have some free time,” says Louis hopefully, sighing in a right fusion of exhaustion and gloom. Harry could see hear it – the fatigue seeping into Louis’ voice; he could see the weary results of long hours and early mornings on Louis’ face as the other man reaches out to take a sip of his now-lukewarm cup of tea set above the table. 

Harry has never tried a hand at running a business before, so he can’t pinpoint all the possible stressors that come with the job; but, he can just imagine how tasking it must be, especially handling an establishment that runs late into the night, serving stubborn customers driven by intoxication, and keeping a smile etched onto your face even as the hours begin to show. If anything, Louis _does_ deserve a break, even for just a day. 

“Why don’t you take a day off?” Harry rubs Louis’ shoulder, providing him with as much relief as he can. “Just for a day. Like, you can just rest in and catch up on sleep and just do things for _yourself_. You deserve it.”

“That sounds too good,” Louis sighs. “It’s gonna take more than me claiming I’m sick though. There’s just so much going on – we’re in the middle of renewing our license, so there’s so many papers to get sorted, and we need to get shit renovated ‘cause some of the pipes are acting up and leaking, and _oh my god_.”

“What’s it gonna take then?” Harry asks, genuinely concerned in what Louis has to say. “For you to get a break?”

“I don’t know, really. A stroke of luck? Maybe if our license renewal stopped getting snubbed and the pipes could magically fix themselves, maybe I’d reward myself with a proper break,” Louis shakes his head, a humorless laugh filling the empty air. “Seems a little far-fetched though. S’ gonna take a few weeks to get all that sorted through.”

Harry seems to be deep in thought, and Louis truly does appreciate his concern – it’s just, it’s highly unlikely for him to just drop a day’s work and give himself a _pamper day_ , what with all the issues he has yet to resolve. He understands that Harry might be getting sick of spending his nights seated on a creaking bar stool, feasting on bar appetizers and light alcoholic beverages, but Louis doesn’t have a choice.

He chose to run this business years ago, and Louis isn’t one to give up on just anything he cares deeply about. “Listen, I’m sorry. I really want to spend a day off and take you out somewhere proper. You’re probably sick of watching American football with middle-aged businessmen.” Louis tries to lighten up the situation with a smile. “Not exactly date material.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Harry reassures the other boy, running his hands through the feathery strands laying atop Louis’ head, to which Louis leans into Harry’s warm touch. “No need to apologize, alright? Any time with you is great, no matter where we are.”

Louis’ heart flutters, and he compensates by leaning up and pressing his lips against Harry’s, consuming all the words that could have been into his own. Harry smiles through it, urges Louis closer, and allows his hands to rest upon Louis’ soft skin. It goes on for minutes with Harry only breaking midway through the kiss to say, “Besides, I think I’m learning so much about the sport. Maybe I can go _pro_.”

Louis just hums in response, settling back into the pattern they’ve constructed for themselves. With a single breath, he mumbles against Harry’s lips, “Sure, you can.”

That afternoon, when Louis steps into the bar with a too-thick coat and a weary stance, Niall’s already stationed at the counter, grinning in absolute triumph. There’s a manila envelope tucked neatly under Niall’s resting arm and when Louis gets close enough to his reach, Niall hands it over to him.

Slipping out the crisp papers from inside the envelope, Louis’ mouth opens in shock. Between his fingers was the set of papers he’s been waiting countless weeks for – their license renewal. Louis can’t seem to believe it because the agency had called and notified them days prior that it would take a couple more weeks, possibly months, to get their accounts settled. Currently, in his hands, is the paper that would ensure that his business could keep running, and Louis is feeling particularly overwhelmed. 

Just when Louis thought the moment couldn’t be any better, Niall pitches in another bearing of good news, “Also, got the pipes checked on, you know, the ones that’ve been leaking for days.”

Louis nods, signaling Niall to continue with his sentence. He was expecting the worst – maybe it burst out and the entire backroom was flooded, maybe he’d have to get the entire chain replaced, maybe he’d have to deal with an entire renovation altogether – but he doesn’t expect the positive report that graces the air. “Turns out, there’re no cracks whatsoever. Even ran a few tests and they all came back good. Something must’ve just spilled or something.”

Louis is speechless, unable to come up with a comprehensible verbal response to the series of good news that he’d just been showered with. It all seemed too good to be true, at this point. 

“Crazy, right?” Niall lets out a laugh laced with disbelief. It seems like he, too, couldn’t seem to grasp the situation fully. “Honestly thought we’d be left dealing with that for _weeks_.”

“Same here.” Louis’ lips curve up, and a wave of relief washes over him. He’s shocked, yes, but he’s not going to deny how relieved he is to be stripped off of the problems. 

“Seems like a load of magic, if you ask me,” Niall casually mentions before heading out to the backroom, presumably to get changed into the proper attire for the night’s work. 

When the blond-haired boy is out of sight and Louis is left with nothing but his own beating heart and a sheathe of silence, he aimlessly mutters to himself – it could be him trying to reconcile a moment he remembers very distinctly with Harry to the scene that just played out before him. His thoughts are whirling around his baffled mind, trying as he must to make everything seem coherent. And so, just as lost as he was moments ago, he repeats, “Yeah, _magic_.”


	5. V.

**V.**

“Did you have anything to do with the renewal?” Louis interrogates, his palms pressed up against the counter, eyes solely directed at Harry who was sipping on a glass of ice cold water, calmly cradling the wide brimmed glass in his hands. “Or the pipes, at least?”

It’s a thought that’s been endlessly tugging at Louis’ conscience, only puzzling him even further the more he delves deeper into it. It’s just – there’s no way the renewal could have sped up tenfold without some external force meddling in it, not when the agency has been pushing their applications back for the past few months, barely picking up their calls as Louis tries to communicate; just the same, it’s near impossible that the pipes were never leaking in the first place when Louis was right there trying to plug in the cracks when they burst, and when he had to mop up the spills until the dawn broke over the horizon. 

What bothers him further is how everything seemed to resolve themselves right after Louis mentioned his problems to Harry. It’s not that he’s pinning the cause on Harry, no, because there’s still the underlying existence of coincidence. But, he can’t help but question the green-eyed boy sitting so casually on his usual stool, not when everything proved to be a little _too_ connected. 

“What d’you mean?” Harry asks with a fairly dimpled smile, innocence weaved into his very tone and if Louis wasn’t forming numerous theories in his head, blinded by suspicion, he would have fallen straight into belief. 

“Yesterday,” Louis begins, animatedly sharing his experience with Harry. “We were on my couch and I told you about wanting a _free day_ , right? And—”

Just then, a voice calls out to Louis, one that he recognizes as one of their usual patrons – the man shouts for a drink refill, and Louis replies with a hurried ‘just a minute!’ before settling his focus back on Harry. “So, anyway, I told you I couldn’t take a free day because I had all this shit to sort through – the renewal and the pipes. D’you remember that?”

“Yup, I remember that,” Harry recalls, nodding along as he listens in further. 

“Great, so that same day, I head to work,” Louis continues. “And Niall’s at the counter looking relieved as ever. Turns out, our renewed license just came in the mail, despite us being ignored for weeks on end. And funnily enough, our pipes were never broken, even though I _swear to God_ they burst right in front of me. I literally remember spending half an hour cleaning up the spills.”

Louis leaves for a little bit, walking towards the customer that had called for his attention, taking the man’s emptied glass and stuffing it under the tap, where the golden, foaming liquid starts to fill it to the brim. He slides it back down to the man, who hastily accepts it before turning his gaze back to the sports game loudly playing on the mounted television. 

When Louis gets back to Harry, he’s pushing forward his empty glass as well, voice low and polite as he says, “Water, please.”

Louis takes a nearby pitcher and lets the clear drink flood his glass, and Harry gratefully cups it back into his palms. “So?”

A visible gulp appears for a quick second at Harry’s throat, as if he was trying to compose himself before he answers with a, “First of all, how could I have done that?”

And Louis, well, he’s stumped. 

The scenario in his mind didn’t quite play out like this; in his head, he was supposed to question Harry about it and get a solid answer – yes or no. He never once stopped to think about the basis behind all his accusations because when it came to it, Louis doesn’t exactly know _how_ Harry would have done it, if he’d even done it at all. 

Here he is, pointing a finger at the boy who’s probably just as clueless as him, and most likely confused to the core as well. Now that his head’s in a clearer state, he thinks about how Harry’s on the same page – just as bewildered by the series of events as he is. If Harry had done it, _how_ would he have executed it?

Connections? For the license renewal, _maybe_ , but he’s not sure how connections could fix up a pipe and rewrite history. Self-work? Not likely; at least, not when all the issues managed to solve themselves in one day – besides, Louis was with Harry the entire morning, there’s no way the man could have slipped out to do all the work. Coincidence? It all seems too unreal to leave it all to the prospect of chance, especially since chance has never worked in his favor ever before. Magic? It’s almost laughable to even _consider_ this option, but if Louis were trapped in some clichéd fairytale with supernatural forces co-existing on the daily, then maybe it’d be socially acceptable to pin every odd event on pure magic. As of right now, he’s got nothing.

“I don’t know,” Louis sighs, reaching out to run his fingers through his own hair. “Maybe you’re, like, a _god_ or something.”

There and then, Louis gives up on speculating – he can’t think up a proper set of reasons as to how the events could have transpired so suddenly. So, he leaves it up to the bleak possibility of divine forces because, _why not?_ Maybe the universe was just being kind to him for once, because the vast heavens know he’s been beaten down to the core every night. 

Harry airily laughs, the crinkles coming up to rest right by his eyes. “I wish. Think of how cool I’d be – I’d have actual shrines and a pretty cool name. I’d be _worshipped_.”

“Don’t take it too seriously, Styles,” Louis lightens up. “I said _maybe_.”

“Maybe’s way better than ‘no’,” Harry pitches in. 

“Besides, you’re _fishing_ ,” Louis pins with a small, delighted laugh. “Harry Styles isn’t a cool enough name already? Just take it all, will you?”

“Just think about it – I wouldn’t have to go with a double name ever again!” Harry pushes, rambling on about the life of being a _god_. “I’d go with one strong, scary name. Probably Latin in origin. No surnames!”

“You can just go be a pop star,” Louis offers. “You’d still have a stunning lack of a surname. People will make _shrines_ for you, practically _worship_ you if they like you enough. And your name’ll sound cool to anyone, no matter what it is. Same thing.”

“But then, I won’t have supernatural _powers_ , now would I?” Harry pouts, seemingly disappointed at the mere thought. “That’s no fun.”

“I don’t know about you, but I think it takes special skill to be a star,” Louis comments. “Protecting your privacy and constantly running away from screaming fans? You can’t tell me that doesn’t take some next level powers.”

“ _Ooh_ , a conspiracy theory.”

“It’s a _valid_ point.”

In between serving Harry up a cocktail he’d selected off the menu (according to him, the ‘water just isn’t cutting it anymore’) and having a debate with Niall over who’s going to deal with the pair of broken beer bottles by the main entrance, Louis finds time to compose his thoughts, rearrange everything so as to see everything in a new light. He figures he shouldn’t have flat out accused Harry of anything, especially something as _absurd_ as being able to magically conjure up solutions to all his problems (in hindsight, he should have felt a little more grateful to the events that allowed him a chance to sleep peacefully for once). 

He makes his way to Harry, an apology at the tip of his tongue as he says, “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” 

“Well, you know, for accusing you of _stuff_.” Louis can’t seem to come up with a logical explanation for his actions anymore. It all sounds foolish in his head now. 

“ _Stuff_ ,” Harry repeats, amusement seeping into the word itself. 

I’ve just been so stumped about it, you know?” Louis releases, diving back into his confusion. “S’ all just extremely coincidental. And weird. Don’t forget weird.”

“It really is,” Harry agrees, taking another sip of his water. “It’s like – witchcraft.”

“I like the term ‘wizardry’ more,” Louis says, shivering as he utters his next line. “’Witchcraft’ just has this, like, scary tone to it. Doesn’t it just give you the chills or something?”

“Eh,” Harry replies, looking awfully nonchalant as he states, “big horror film fan.”

“Oh, _please_ ,” Louis scoffs, but he’s still got a cheery tone in his voice somehow. “Horror films barely scratch the surface about what those _really_ are.”

“Are you challenging me?”

“Are you up for it?” Louis confidently counters, shrugging as he ambles towards a patron leaning over the counter, holding out a bill and an order.

*****

If anything, Louis absolutely dislikes large groups.

These groups, often consisting of a hoard of young men and women in their early twenties, swarm the area in full, taking up almost every remaining vacant seat left inside the establishment. It’s chaos – the way they scream at each other to get conversations flowing from across the table; how they push for discounts on drinks for larger groups (even though there clearly aren’t any); and, when they scatter about the bar in an unruly manner, wreaking havoc in the often quiet place. On special days, there’ll be puke pooling about in the toilets, fetched up by some customer that couldn’t quite tolerate her alcohol – and those days, well, Louis just _loves_ those. 

As it turns out, that day is today.

“I _fucking_ hate that,” Louis groans, holding a mop in hand. “Why do I have to be on puke patrol?”

Niall just shrugs, holding his hands up in the air. “I did it the last three times. Just thought you’d missed the _best part_ of the job.”

Louis rolls his eyes at the other boy. “I can’t believe this is my life.”

“Quit whining and just get it over with,” Niall scolds, and Louis knocks his forehead on the wooden handle of the mop he’s unwillingly gripping. 

“Ruining a _perfectly good mop_ ,” Louis mutters as he hesitantly strolls away, heading towards the bathroom where the mess is. 

“Also, Puke Patrol sounds lame,” Niall shouts after Louis, feeling extremely proud of himself as he follows up with, “I think we should go with ‘Vomit Vigilante’!”

Niall doesn’t hear Louis’ response to that, but he’s just going to assume that Louis was pleased. 

In Louis’ absence, the curly-haired man dressed in an off-white loose knit sweater remains silent, sipping on the chilled drink in his hand, eyes drifting about the room – from the replay of the sports matches flashing on the screen to the standstill arrangement of the liquor bottles on the shelves behind the counter. Niall approaches Harry, hoping to strike up some conversation with the hushed man. “You’re awfully quiet, aren’t you?”

Harry puts down his drink, smiling in relief at the other boy. “Thank _god_ , you’re here. If I had to sit and listen to the men behind me bicker on about the match, I think I’d have turned into _one_ of them.”

“Not a talker, then?”

“Just friendless,” Harry casually answers. 

“Ah, right,” Niall nods. “Sometimes I forget you’re new. Louis goes off about you like he’s known you for _ages_. Plus, we’ve gotten so close in such a short amount of time. Blurs my memory a little.”

“I don’t know, guess it’s just kinda hard for me to make friends,” Harry honestly says. “Like, not that I’m looking for _any_ at the moment.”

“Nonsense,” Niall replies, slamming his palms on the table. “ _’Not looking for any’_ , what is that? Come on, H, if you’re gonna live here, you have to get acquainted with a lot more than just me and Louis, like,” Niall scans the vicinity, squinting at potential customers that would be worthy of his mission. “Aha!”

Harry pretends like he wasn’t downright shocked by Niall’s sudden exclamation. 

He watches Niall rush towards another man perched on one of the stools by the counter. The stranger confusedly looks at a grinning Niall who’s got eyes tainted with intention. “Mike, you looking for a friend?”

Niall doesn’t give the man enough time to craft a lengthy response. In a trice, Niall’s got his hand excitedly wrapped around the stranger’s (well, to Harry, at least) wrist and a victorious beam etched on his face. “That’s Harry, he’s new. Figured he could use a friend, you know?”

Niall points straight at Harry, who’s now awkwardly setting off a small wave towards the unfamiliar man with auburn hair and a nervous frown. “He’s really into – uh,” Niall wracks his brain for a topic that he can throw out into the open, hopefully to establish some solid conversation points between the two strangers, but he’s downright stumped. “I’m sure you guys’ll find something to talk about. Try the weather.”

The man, _Mike_ from what Harry heard, tentatively positions himself behind Harry. Harry, on the other hand, clears his throat, hoping to alleviate the awkward situation they’ve managed to find themselves in. Somewhere deeply rooted in Harry’s mind, he’s shooting daggers right at Niall – but the blond man stands with a look of delight, evidently proud of his friend-matching skills, and Harry doesn’t want to burst the bubble of _kindness_ that Niall considers is so. 

When Louis comes back from his _conquest_ with a mop full of sick and an expression extremely sour, he’s surprised to find Harry chatting up someone else that isn’t him or Niall. From the other end of the bar, Niall cuts up a piece of fruit, pressing the wedge onto the brim of a cocktail glass. “What’s going on over there?”

Niall leans back, then aligns his gaze to where Louis was gesturing. “Thought Harry could use a friend that isn’t one of us.”

Louis snickers, watching the slow conversation between Harry and Mike play before him, and he wonders what topic they could have possibly settled upon. He knows them separately, and he can guarantee that their realms of experiences rarely coincide. “So, you fetched him _Mike_.”

Niall nods. “They were both lonely. Maybe they’ll cancel each other out.”

“You’d be fucking _terrible_ at matchmaking, you know that?”

Niall tilts his head at Harry’s direction, where the man’s got an uneasy smile spread across his face and fingers endlessly tapping random rhythms onto the counter. He now realizes his horrid mistake. “You’re right, now go save him before he slams his head on the counter.”

Louis lets out a heavy laugh, highly amused by the situation. He hands the used mop to Niall, who takes it for some odd reason. When he realizes what he’s done, Niall’s face takes on a disgusted expression, gritting his teeth at the bottom. “ _Gross_.”

“You took it!” But before Niall could toss the mop back to Louis, the other man had already found his way towards the other end of the bar.

*****

“Anyone care for a refill?”

Louis’ sharp voice cuts through the discomfort spreading about in the air and not long after, a sigh of relief escapes Harry’s lips. The other man mimics his reaction, grateful for the distraction. 

“You look like you could use another drink,” Louis notes, shifting his focus to Harry for a quick second. Upon seeing Harry eagerly nod, Louis suppresses a smile. He takes Harry’s glass down the counter, replacing it with a clean one, and then pouring a vibrant, golden liquid into the still glass. The moment Louis slides the quarter-filled glass to Harry, the other man gulps it down without delay. And, sure, Louis knew it looked bad, but he didn’t know it was _that_ bad. 

“How ‘bout you, mate? Refill?” Louis asks Mike, whose hand was involuntarily playing around with his empty glass. 

The response comes promptly in the form of a shake of the head and a hurried farewell, “Actually, I have a, uh, plane to catch.”

“A _plane_?” Louis queries, raising a brow at the regular customer. “At this hour?”

“Late flight, bit late for it actually,” Mike excuses, lifting himself up off the seat and brushing down his scuffed jeans. He collects his jacket from the seat and shrugs it on, continuing his explanation. “Gotta rush.”

“ _Alright_ ,” Louis knows it’s a wild lie, but he decides to let it slide. “Take care on your flight. I guess.”

Mike offers a small wave to Louis and Niall behind the counter, and then turns his attention to Harry, sticking a hand out for the other to shake. And so, Harry does, but no words are exchanged between them. Louis almost feels terrible for laughing. 

“Never do that again,” Harry warns Niall once Mike is out of sight. Beside him, Louis is doubling over in laughter. “We talked about yarn; fucking _yarn_ for what? Five minutes? I think I put myself to sleep right there.”

“Come on, I’m sure it wasn’t _that_ bad, Harry,” Louis says once he’s managed to calm down from his high, then resting a hand on Harry’s shoulder. 

“You think?” Harry asks, pouting a little. 

“Oh, sure,” Louis nods, but there’s a smile tugging up at the corners of Louis’ lips as he says so, and Harry knows that’s not a good sign. “S’ a real party starter that one – _yarn_. Heard quilts are all the rage with the teens.”

Niall’s laugh bounces off the walls, and Harry groans into his hands.

*****

Their steps make low, scratchy noises as they lightly dig into the gravelly road, the sound of tiny pebbles filling the stagnant space. Louis keeps his arms buried deeply into his jacket pockets, trying to gather as much warmth as he can onto his nearly frozen palms. His ears are tucked under a large set of earmuffs that Harry had clutched along that day, for god knows what reason, and despite Louis’ many attempts to reject the obnoxious piece of winter wear, Harry reigned – and so, this is how he ended up suiting the muffs over Louis’ ears – with Louis scrunching up his nose with distaste and Harry giggling at how _small_ Louis looked with a giant pair engulfing a fair amount of his face.

But now, Harry’s got his arm wrapped around Louis’ waist, pulling him closer as the harsh winds grew colder. Louis leans into the touch for two reasons: one, he’s fucking cold, and he’ll cling to any bit of warmth that he could possibly hold onto; and two, it gives him a justified excuse to cuddle up next to Harry as they tread through the streets (and an excuse for Harry to hold his hand because as tiny as the gesture may be, Louis is an absolute _sucker_ for hand holding). 

“Aren’t you ever scared?” There’s a slight shiver riding along Louis’ tone, but he’ll blame that on the temperature. 

“Of what?” Harry asks, tilting his head so he can face Louis. 

“Of, like, walking home alone and all,” Louis clarifies, pressing up tighter against Harry when a cool breeze seeps through his sleeve. “’Cause I kinda feel guilty whenever you walk me home after work and you have to walk all the way home by yourself. Aren’t you ever scared? Like, even a little terrified of the shit that could be lurking in the dark or something?”

“ _Well_ ,” Harry responds, tone sounding awfully unbothered. “You were the one that told me that the scariest thing here was probably a dog. A _tiny_ dog.”

“First of all, wait don’t laugh at me for that,” Louis pokes his index finger right into Harry’s chest, and Harry just snickers at that. “Wait ‘til you encounter that _thing_. Swear, it’s evil personified. Or, _dog_ -ified. I dunno, whatever you call it. 

Louis pauses for a bit, composes his thoughts, then utters, “And secondly, I’m not one to ride on gossip and throw myself into belief over them right away, okay, but there are stories going around of, like, _monsters_ in neighboring towns. It’s pretty crazy, actually. I mean not that I believe them or anything, but–“

“What stories?” Harry cuts him off, brows furrowed as he develops a greater deal of interest in what Louis has to say. 

“Everything I’ve heard is from Niall, alright, so don’t quote me on anything,” Louis says, and Harry smiles – Louis takes that as a call to get on with it. “I wouldn’t necessarily call it a monster, per se, but there’s been talk about some man that’s been _feasting_ on people’s hearts – sounds completely absurd, I know. When I first heard it, I rejected the whole idea of it, just dismissed it as some guy going around breaking hearts and I kind of just assumed that people loved to _sensationalize_ things."

“Feasting on hearts?” Harry huffs, but the smile has not once faltered on his face. “That’s morbid.” 

“ _Right_?” Louis flails his arms around as he tells his story, getting wholly immersed in his tale. “But, like, Niall seemed all shaken up about it, and it looks like other people are, too. Says the girls that told him the story were proper scared.” 

“Has anyone even ever seen this _thing_?” Harry follows up, intrigued by the gossip, as all curious people would be. “Must be something to it – maybe it roams the streets with claws or something. In that case, I’d consider it at least a tiny bit creepy.” 

“Yeah, they have, actually,” Louis affirms. Their pace has gotten a whole lot slower now, and it’s quiet enough to hear both their breaths coming out in patterned intervals. An irrational fear creeps through Louis, clouding his head with worst-case scenarios as he amplifies the story in his head. He doesn’t even know why it’s suddenly such a chilling story, especially considering he’d gotten up and laughed at the mere idea of it weeks before; nonetheless, it spreads worry throughout Louis’ system, and Louis holds onto Harry’s waist tighter in an attempt to ease his nerves. “Not much to detail – they all just say he’s this really good looking guy – a, uh,” Louis clears his throat. “Hunk.” 

Harry snorts at that, and Louis lightly nudges him with his elbow, accompanied by a whispered “shush”. 

“So anyway, I’m gonna assume he’s tall and mysterious, like all the films depict strange, dashing guys to be,” Louis says. “Maybe kinda like you.” 

Harry tenses up at Louis’ words, and Louis doesn’t exactly know why. In his head, his whole statement was structured to act as a _compliment_ , but maybe he imagined it wrong. Either way, Harry keeps his gaze solely trained on the desolate roads ahead, not moving his head once to turn towards Louis as he continues talking. 

“Apparently, this guy goes on and sways his targets,” Louis makes air quotes with his fingers as he voices out the word “targets”. “Even _romances_ them, in your language, and after that, people just aren’t quite themselves.” 

A subtle smile breaks through Harry’s tension, but it barely stays for longer than two seconds. Odd, is what it is. Just a couple of minutes ago, Harry was a right mix of roaring laughter and affectionate touches; now, he’s become stiff in his senses, avoiding eye contact and embracing the silence. 

“Harry, are you alright?” Louis checks up on the other boy, concerned. Even in the dim lights casted by the ever-glowing moon, Louis can make up the changing shade of Harry’s skin, taking on a paler shade as they walk. Louis raises a hand up to rest it on Harry’s forehead, then his neck, checking to see if he’s been heating up way above average. “Love, are you coming down with something?” 

And there, it slips. 

It comes as gentle as the breeze, weaving itself right into Louis’ words and intertwining itself so gracefully with Louis’ concern. Perhaps, to others, the word _love_ doesn’t prove to be anything monumental, especially if not used in the context of “I love you”; but to Louis, it makes his thoughts spin in ceaseless rounds, only winding down when he comes to terms with the fact that _he said that_. He’d just called Harry _love_ , and to Louis, that was something. 

Harry, to the obvious eye, was looking a bit ill, and this draws waves of concern from the smaller boy, who’s brushing away strands of hair from Harry’s forehead. It all came so suddenly, this peaky state Harry’s found himself in, and Louis can’t point out what could have possibly triggered it. 

“M’ fine,” Harry murmurs, although his blank gaze and cooling skin say otherwise. 

“No, you’re not,” Louis observes, his hands still cupped around Harry’s frame. When he sees that Harry’s not resisting and instead, is keeping his focus set on his measured breathing, Louis decides to take matters into his own hands. There’s no way he’s keeping them around entrapped in the cold, dark space any longer. 

“Come on, love, let’s get you home.” 


	6. VI.

**VI.**

With nothing but a vague set of directions and a whirlwind of confusion, Louis guides Harry back to his apartment – that, which Louis has never heard of before, much less _seen_.

Harry’s apartment is compact and old-fashioned, nestled between two larger buildings, sticking out like a sore thumb among the modern structures that surround it. It’s relatively small, barely two floors to it, and the bricks are exposed to a beaten extent, almost as if the walls have flecked due to time rather than plain architecture. The windows resemble that of a submarine’s – bolted and heavy, circular and cloudy, thick-framed and packed together. The walls, a warm shade of scarlet, lie crooked in many edges. 

It’s an odd building, Louis will give it that; and, in all his years of residing in the small, tight-knit town, he’s never once encountered Harry’s apartment. If he did, he’d be sure to remember the peculiar structures it holds, but so far, nothing about the building toggles any memories. 

“Is this it?” Louis asks a weakening Harry, pointing at the building in front of him. 

Harry nods in affirmation, clutching more tightly onto Louis’ shoulder for support as they slowly walk towards the strange building. Drawing closer, Louis can see it more clearly now – the main entrance, unlike most glass double doors, is a singular metal-barrier opening. Above the door rests a multi-colored dial, and that’s hooked at the top portion is pointed towards the red space of the four-colored plane. 

Harry wobbly stands on his two feet, moving unsteadily as he fumbles for his keys. He picks it out – it’s a small, old, bronze key with intricate details adorning the boy. There are scratches etched along the shoulder and the cuts, but Louis figures it’s gotten all its marks due to time and wear (a _lot_ of time and wear, at that – it looked _ancient_ ). And now, as Harry twists the key into the lock, he notices how Harry’s place of residence doesn’t conform to the standards that Louis has grown accustomed to. Firstly, Louis notices that unlike most apartments with a quaint lobby and the freely-open front main entrance, Harry’s acted more like a personal house – a single key that fits into a door that doesn’t look all too inviting, and the stunning lack of a warm, friendly face greeting the passers-by by the door. When they enter, their figures slowly being consumed by the darkness, Louis could make up the faint outline of furniture (and lots of it). That brings him to his second point: the structure acts more like a house, because the moment they step in, Louis could already tell that they had already stepped into Harry’s home proper. 

The lights flicker on, casting a gentle glow upon them. Despite this, Harry hasn’t moved an inch from his position near the front door, and to be completely real, Louis didn’t even see Harry flick a switch on. _Oh well_ , Louis guesses, _maybe it’s some fancy lighting system he doesn’t know a thing about_. 

The inside proves to be even more curiosity-inducing than the outside, and Louis didn’t even know if that was possible. Regardless of its outside build, which makes the place look ten times smaller than it really is, the inside is spacious, and by that, Louis is completely dumbfounded. He could swear that from the outside, he envisioned an equally cramped interior, but now, as he stands surrounded by the vast space filled to the brim with bright-colored furniture and eccentric trinkets, he deems himself wrong. 

Harry’s home was nothing but shelves, shelves, shelves, with the occasional antique lamp peeking out from behind ledges, surely nothing Louis expects from some twenty-something bachelor. On the racks lay a multitude of bottles (and not like the liquor bottles Louis harbors back at the bar, no) – these bottles were strangely-shaped, taking on odd forms of shapes Louis couldn’t even name. Some bottles were empty, some were filled with a fair amount of liquid, corked shut at the top. There’s too much of them that Louis doesn’t even know where to start, which one he should question first. 

Harry, seen from the corner of Louis’ eye, trudges over towards his purple plush couch rimmed with fine, gold details at the edges. It looks like a couch crafted for _royalty_ , if that. Louis has never encountered royalty, that is, but he’s watched a couple of films about it; he reckons it’s enough.

Harry curls up on himself on the couch, and Louis eyes him carefully from where he stands. The man looks _weak_ , and Louis takes time to get used to the sight – in all the days that he’s known Harry (albeit a short amount of time), the man has never faltered from his cheery, exuberant demeanor even once; and now, with Harry’s tightly-shut eyes and slow, shallow breaths, a pang spreads about Louis’ chest, making him feel utterly worried. 

“D’you want me to get you some water?” Louis offers, kneeling down beside Harry on the couch and gently threading his fingers through the other man’s hair, tucking some strands that have fallen astray behind his ear. Harry does what Louis assumes is a frail attempt at a nod, and so he gets up to his feet, scanning the room for the entrance towards the kitchen. 

Immediately, what Louis notices is that there are _too_ many doors present. If the walls were not covered with shelves, there would be built-in doors filling the empty space. Louis turns to Harry, hopefully to question him about the location of the kitchen, but Harry’s got his face pressed up against the soft material of the couch, and Louis doesn’t want to bother him.

As Louis turns to walk aimlessly towards what he hopes is the kitchen, he hears Harry’s deep voice say, “Please don’t touch anything.”

Louis nods, taking the request into mind. If he’s being completely honest, there are so many things around him that just _call_ for him to explore, but he’s respectful just as much as he is nosy, and he decides to stick to his good side for this particular moment. And so, Louis stumbles about, craning his neck to peek through arches and hallways. At the far end of one particular hallway, Louis spots an arch opening with an outline of what seems to be a refrigerator in its corner – he’ll try his luck on this one, but only because he’s confused as _hell_ and at this point, everything looks like a kitchen. 

As he walks through the dark hallway, he passes by numerous doors, but these are different. The doors, painted with various shades of blues and reds, stand bolted down, a giant lock hanging off their handles. Naturally, Louis’ curiosity is sparked – if the abundance of doors wasn’t strange enough, then the heavily locked doors claim the prize. Louis finds himself engrossed in theories and self-speculations regarding what lies beyond those doors as he steps into the room at the end of the hallway, which is, luckily enough, the kitchen. 

It’s the simplest spot in the entire house, from what Louis has seen – common appliances deck the counters and the marbled floors. There’s a slim, stainless refrigerator parked at the corner, a four-burner stove atop a built-in oven, a deep tap, copper pots and pans scattered about the countertops, and several baskets of cellophane-wrapped fruits on display. The hunt for the glasses begins as Louis is faced with a number of cupboards and cabinets, and he slightly opens each one to briefly glance at its contents. 

Finally, after much searching, he finds he glasses tucked away in a high cabinet by the far right end, and Louis has to stand up on his tiptoes to reach for them. Once his fingers grasp at a glass (to which Louis triumphantly rejoices in his head), he pulls it down, accidentally pulling something else down with it. 

The loud sound of glass shattering is what causes Louis to jump back in surprise; then, the surprise just turns into panic. 

By his feet, a green-stained glass lays in broken pieces, the shards scattered about the kitchen floor. The contents of the glass (or, what _used_ to be its contents) have spilled, the magenta-colored liquid forming small pools on the ground. Louis’ heart quickly pounds, scared that he might have broken something important. Harry had told him not to touch anything, and although Louis stayed true to that (well, for the most part), he’d not only touched something, but he managed to break one as well. 

And so, yes, it’s extremely and absolutely valid for Louis to be nervous right now. 

Louis frantically starts looking for a towel, a rag, a piece of spare cloth, or _anything_ that could soak up this mess before Harry notices the commotion going down in the kitchen, but he doesn’t see anything of use. A part of Louis thinks, _what kind of homeowner doesn’t keep towels hanging off their cupboard handles?_ While the other part of him is thinking, _well, shit, Harry’s going to fucking hate him._

Amidst his state of panic, Louis catches a glimpse of something odd. Below him, the mauvish-crimson liquid starts to bubble, fucking _bubble_. Large, clear bubbles sprout out momentarily, before they pop and dissolve back into the fizzing mix. Louis furrows his brows as he crouches down, trying to examine the strange sight in front of him. He’s a hundred percent _sure_ that the liquid was stagnant just seconds ago. 

He’s about to lean closer and Louis doesn’t even know why, but he has the urge to _touch_ the thing, but a voice halts him from doing so. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Louis falls back in shock, his eyes drifting towards the arched doorway where Harry leans, arms slipped right into the pockets of his pants. Harry’s gotten out of his outer coat and changed into a silky robe that’s tinted to the shade of topaz – it’s delicately wrapped around his slim waist, the tight knot resting at bay just by his hips. Louis doesn’t know how Harry had managed to get changed so quickly especially in his ill state, nor could he figure out why Harry was standing by the doorway, cheeks taking on a lively pink and lips curved upwards into a warm smile, as if he wasn’t weakly slumped against his couch less than fifteen minutes ago. 

“You’re up,” is all Louis could say in his stunned state. 

“I am,” Harry confirms, sauntering towards Louis who was still sitting down on the ground next to the spilled unidentified liquid. “Feeling much better now.”

It’s just now that Louis shakes himself out of his trance, and realizes that he’s made an awful mistake, and that Harry has probably already spotted the remains of Louis’ foolish act. Louis mentally prepares himself, formulating various excuses and apologies in his head, trying to figure out which set is bound to get him off the leash (or, forgiveness at least). “Listen, I’m really sorry about this,” Louis points at the spill. “I was just reaching for a glass to get you some water and it just _knocked_ itself right off, I swear—” (sure, Louis loves blaming inanimate objects).

“S’ fine,” Harry offers him up a reassuring smile as the taller boy crouches down by the spill, cautiously avoiding the shards of broken glass. “Don’t worry.”

“No, it’s _not_ ,” Louis goes off. “You told me not to touch anything and I _did_ , and now you probably think I’m some nosy piece of shit that has no respect for personal boundaries, and—”

A laugh comes out of Harry, which cuts Louis off mid-sentence. 

“ _Hey_ , it’s not funny. I really am sorry.”

“Oh, I know you are,” Harry answers, coming face to face with Louis. “But, I’m not upset. I _promise_.”

“It just—“ Louis stares at the reddish liquid, which has reduced into a mere simmer now, the bubbles barely there. “It looked important, that. Whatever it is. What even is _that?_ ”

“Well, it’s in the kitchen, so,” Harry trails off, and Louis doesn’t know what to make of that answer. It’s vague and true enough, misleading. But, Louis figures it’s Harry’s way of saying it’s some strange sauce, probably exotic – maybe it’s a condiment, like ketchup or something. Either way, Louis has never seen something like it before. In fact, he’s not quite sure if he’d like to be pouring bubbling magenta sauces over his burgers any day. 

“So, I’m guessing it’s like ketchup,” Louis teases, playing with Harry’s lack of explanation. 

“Sure,” Harry agrees, staring at the liquid. “Let’s keep it at that.”

Louis stands, pushing himself up off his seat on the floor, and walks about, presumably to continue getting the glass of water that he came here for. After all, he’s already caused enough commotion, the least he can do is finish through with what he started. “I’ll sweep up the mess,” Louis says, looking apologetic as he does. “I’ll just get you a glass of water, yeah? So you can go back to rest.”

Harry shakes his head, flashing his same, semi-permanent smile up at Louis. “I got it.”

“No, really,” Louis insists – the man just came from looking like he was about to _faint_ , so there’s no way Louis is letting him clean up a fragile mess, especially if that mess was caused by Louis himself. “It’s my fault, I can clean it up.”

“But, I _love_ cleaning,” and, well, Louis has not once heard that statement in his life, but Harry looks genuine in his declaration, and uh, Louis leaves him be. 

“Well at least let me get you the water,” Louis turns to pull the fridge door open, grabbing at a jug of water and pouring it into the empty glass. He pushes the door closed with his elbow, and spins around to hand the glass over to Harry, only to find the other man dusting his hands, and the spill on the floor all cleaned up, no trace of it left whatsoever. 

Louis is baffled, in its simplest terms. The scattered bits of glass were everywhere, and the liquid looked, quite frankly, _dangerous_ to touch. So, laying his gaze upon the spotless floor seemed just about impossible to him. Louis almost drops the glass in his hand, but he didn’t want to cause trouble twice. “How’d you clean it up so fast?”

Harry walks over to Louis, then takes the glass from his hand, handing over a word of thanks as he gratefully sips on the cool, clear liquid. “Maybe it’s a talent.”

“Yeah, a talent for _aliens_ maybe,” Louis remarks, his mind still racing with confusion. “Trust me, I’ve dealt with so many broken bottles in my lifetime, and there’s no way that could’ve been cleaned up so fast. I didn’t even hear you sweep it up.”

“I’m a man of many talents,” Harry jokes, moving to lean against the counter where Louis was stationed. “Plus, with all the glass I have in my apartment, I guess it just gets easier to manage. I’m not exactly the most careful person.”

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Louis pokes Harry’s side, eliciting a giggle out of Harry. “House full of fragile things and yet you’re the _clumsiest_ person ever.”

“Hey, I’m careful with fragile things,” Harry defends himself. “To some extent.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but a smile plays on his lips nonetheless. “Believe what you want to believe.”

“And look who’s talking,” Harry counters, twisting his body so as to face Louis. “Says the guy that managed to _break_ something within just fifteen minutes of being in my house.”

“You said it was fine!”

“’Course it is, I’m just playing.”

And when Harry captures Louis in a soft, fleeting kiss with Harry’s arms resting against the counter behind Louis, trapping Louis’ frame in between Harry’s arms, all of Louis’ questions and suspicions fade out into the corner of Louis’ mind, burying themselves in the deepest crevices, with Louis urging them to come back later, because right now, Harry’s lips were on his, and that’s all he could think about.

*****

“So, what’s with all the random, _uh_ , vases?”

“ _Vases_ ,” Harry mocks, amused by Louis’ choice of word to describe all the glass bottles and vials that decorated the interior of his home. 

“I couldn’t think of any other word,” Louis justifies, gesturing at the wide assortment around him. “Besides, they look like vases to me. They’re not _drinking glasses_ , that’s for sure.”

Louis sits on Harry’s couch, where Harry was previously sprawled across, tainted with a mild sickness that had seemed to just magically disappear into non-existence, considering Harry’s now back to his bouncing, bubbly self – all dimpled smiles and passable humor, like he was never really weak at all. There’s a steaming cup of coffee in Louis hands, mixed with copious amounts of _almond milk_ , because Harry, as the healthy specimen he is, never purchases anything but. Louis sips at the drink, scrunching his nose up as the unfamiliar taste of the almond milk settles on his tongue. It’s not the best thing, _eh_ , but it’ll do. 

“And if they are?” Harry pushes, taking a seat beside Louis on the couch, his topaz-colored robe coming into great contrast with the vibrant purple couch as it pools down on the material. “What if I _enjoy_ drinking out of weird glasses?”

“You should’ve made that play before I got you some water in your _actual_ glasses, and from what I remember – they were pretty plain.”

“Ah, _pickles_ ,” Harry says, snapping his fingers across his face in an over-exaggerated, highly animated manner. Louis snickers into his coffee.

They talk about a treasury of things – how Harry was able to find this place (Louis doesn’t quite know what to call it – an apartment? A house? Habitat?) and why Louis has never seen it before, despite having resided in town for literal years now. To that, Harry says he spotted the ad on a local paper two towns down, and the place looked livable and it fared at a decent price. Louis talks about the odd exterior, and he asks for Harry’s input on that, and Harry just replies with, “I love it, it’s eccentric. Kinda gives a whole lot of character, don’t you think?”

And who is Louis to argue with that?

Then, Louis asks about the _vases_ (because he’s sure as hell going to push for that) – Harry just stands up and heads over to the shelves, saying that some of them are family heirlooms, passed on from generation to generation, while some of the others are souvenirs from places he’s visited on his adventures. When Louis mentions the corked vials filled with liquid, Harry fidgets, and he pauses a little while longer as he comes up with an answer. Finally, Harry settles on _‘they’re collectibles’_ , just like how some people collect medicines from different time periods. And, _yeah_ , Louis thinks, _he can accept that explanation._

Louis doesn’t bother to ask about the bolted doors down the hallway, nor does he press on further about what the unidentified, bubbling liquid was back in the kitchen, or how Harry managed to clean it up so fast, no matter how much it nagged at his mind. He’ll take it all one step at a time, little by little. 

“You feeling better now?” Louis checks up on the other boy, reaching out to press his hand against Harry’s forehead, just to make sure he wasn’t coming down with a fever of some sort. Harry nods, and Louis says, “You healed up pretty fast. Honestly, I was shocked to see you up and standing, kinda thought you couldn’t get yourself up.”

“It’s a recurring thing, ‘m used to it,” Harry shrugs it off, like it’s no big deal. 

“It’s happened before?” Louis queries, his worry levels rising once again. “Do you take anything for it? Medicine? Pills? I don’t know.”

Harry stifles a laugh, “It rarely happens, trust me. And when it does, I _do_ take something for it, which is why I got back on my feet so quickly.”

“Oh,” is what Louis says – that _does_ make a whole lot of sense. “That makes sense.”

“You worry about me a lot.”

“You give me a lot of things to worry about.”

Harry eventually falls asleep with his head resting on Louis’ shoulder because apparently, caffeine doesn’t bear the same effect on Harry as it does most people; in fact, it does the complete _opposite._

Harry has his arms hugging his knees; sock-clad feet perched up on the couch. His head is set atop in a tousled mess, the curly strands setting off in all directions. His lashes flutter with every breath he takes, and just as delicately so, his pink-tinted cheeks lay pressed up against Louis. Louis doesn’t want to wake him, afraid that if he moves even just a little, he’ll wake the other man, but Louis is extremely _thirsty_ , and the coffee just wasn’t cutting it. 

He tries, gently as he could, to slip out from his position, carefully positioning Harry’s head on the couch’s top edge. Harry stirs, and for a moment Louis is scared that he had woken him up, but Harry merely shifts in his sleep. Louis lets out a relieved sigh, then stretches out his limbs – his unmoving position had really taken a toll on his body. 

He pads towards the kitchen, his feet bringing him down the familiar route. He’s a lot more careful as he reaches for a glass, avoiding all sorts of other breakables that he could accidentally knock off with his hand. Once he’s filled his glass with water, he walks right back to the living room, where Harry’s still engulfed in his deep sleep. 

The faint light struck by the peeking moon sheds light on the figures inside Harry’s house – for some drawing reason, Louis gravitates towards the shelves, allowing his curiosity to get the best of him. He’s not going to touch anything, he _swears_ , but he figures there’s no harm in admiring all the things Harry’s got on display. 

It’s just – in comparison to Louis’ apartment, Harry’s looks like a fucking museum. Where Louis has a plain, laminated cherry wood coffee dining table, Harry has rows and rows of decoratives, looking far more expensive than Louis could ever afford in his lifetime. Where Louis has a worn, cotton sofa with loose weaves sticking out of the seams, Harry has a polished royal purple chaise longue, fit for luxury. Where Louis has cheap beer cans haphazardly placed in his cupboards, Harry has strange, fizzing liquids in equally peculiar bottles. 

He sifts through the shelves of curios, vacantly looking at scratched-up clouded bottles with disintegrating labels, eyeing the tags that are peeling off. On the labels lie characters that Louis can’t understand – they’re cursive and more often than not, taking the form of symbols, much like ancient writing samples. As he skims through the rest, he uncovers that none of the bottles are in English, or in any language that Louis can decipher at least. They’re all written in the same olden characters as the first bottle he’d noticed. 

As he peers through the stained glasses plugged with corks, he observes their contents. Much like the spilled liquid in the kitchen, the contents of the bottles seemed to effervesce on their own; and, if not, they swirled in an array of brilliant colors, endlessly circling one another, but never fully mixing. 

Louis doesn’t want to be the type to instantly envisage absurd theories, but something about the things in Harry’s house unsettle him – maybe it’s the thought that some items around him could be older than him (much, much, much older than him, at that), or maybe he’s unwillingly been plagued by the irrational notion that everything in this house is _alive_. Either way, it sends a chill through him, causing him to sit back down in his previous spot on the longue and get as close to Harry as he possibly can. 

As far as he knows, they’re alone. But, he can’t help but feel like there are eyes watching him, surveying his every move. Knowing he’s scaring himself absolutely _shitless_ with his own wild thoughts, Louis blames the furniture.


End file.
